The Mysteries of Magic
by collinsworth
Summary: Saving the Philosopher's Stone opened Harry's eyes to a greater spectrum. Sometimes, all it takes for someone to grow is a dash of trust and a dollop of inspiration. Harry returns for his fourth year amidst the threat of the Dark Lord and a veil long parted—and his eyes are full of stars.
1. Chapter I

**Disclaimer** : I own nothing.  
 **Rewritten in:** 11/15/2018.  
This story is better viewed in the 3/4 format.

 **How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Magic.**

* * *

 _"Real magic, my boy, has nothing to do with gaining control over the minds and actions of others. It has, however, everything to do with gaining control of yourself. When one knows their own heart enough to find the real magic inside, he will find there's nothing differentiating it from the greatest magic there is. Love."  
_  
— Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter during their first lesson together.

* * *

There's magic everywhere to those who can see it.

Sirius' magic behaves a great deal like him _—_ it looks wild and restless around his body, the sigils and runes of its make fluttering on an unseen breeze and blossoming into colors and possibilities. Even if frayed at the edges, his magic fills the little St. Mungo's room and remains unbroken as it howls and screams and _burns_ with defiance. Sirius' voice is nothing but background noise to me as he tells a story about some prank he pulled in the seventies because, at the same time, his magic shows me _everything else_.

"The moral of the story is, you never use a yak as a flotation device," he says with a smile that falters slightly as no one laughs. "Harry, are you paying attention? Harry? You alright?"

"Sorry, just worried."

These simple words managed to freeze the very essence of his magic.

Startled into silence, Sirius props himself on his elbows and looks me up and down as if he'd never seen me before. One of his feet dangles from under the old, threadbare blanket and, for a second or two, the intensity of his stare gives the impression that he owns the room.

Even as his expression is tight with concern, it's impossible to ignore how much of Sirius' appearance has changed in just two months. Now, after putting on some much-needed weight and with his hair combed and luxurious, his face bears a close resemblance to that smiling man from my parents' wedding photo.

"Well," Sirius finally finds his voice again, "are you, now?"

"Nevermind." My gaze darts around, trying find something to distract him with, and I catch the sight of one of the flowers on his nightstand. It looks like a tumorous begonia, big, yellow, and ugly, a bit too much on the Crabbe side of things. "Remus' gift?"

"Afraid so," Sirius' nose wrinkles with distaste, "bugger told me it reminded him of my mother."

I laugh. "Really? What's the story behind-"

"Harry? Stop bullshitting and tell me what you're worried about."

I blame this turn of luck on the fact that Sirius is _smart,_ not Hermione smart, but like, _street_ smart. There's no alternative on sight other than to get on with it already, clean and easy, like taking off a band-aid. From an oozing pustule.

"Remember earlier, when Professor Dumbledore brought me here?"

"Yeah," he stretches the word like it's a savory treat, "your face was priceless. I thought you'd had a stroke or something."

My very mature reaction is to throw a pillow at him. "Shut it."

"Ouch. What's that about?"

"Reasons." I promptly ignore his noise of protest. "You see, before Professor Dumbledore Apparated me here, he told me I'll be back to Hogwarts tomorrow."

"So why the bloody hell are you worried?" Sirius spreads his arms open and his eyes go wide. "C'mon, it's Hogwarts! I thought you'd feel thrilled about that. I know I would."

"Trust me, I do. I seriously— _oh, shut up_ —do, but-" I pause, allowing the silence to carry on for a second while my mind searches everywhere for the right words. "I haven't been there with them for two years, Sirius."

There's a beat of silence.

"I see," he says with a shrewd glint on his eyes that makes me feel uncomfortable. "You fear they won't accept you back."

"Just hit the nail on the head, wouldn't you?" I say, trying to hide my very real wince. "That, and the times I went back weren't the best, either."

 _Well done saying the wrong thing here, Potter_. Sirius' magic, which looked relaxed and at ease a second earlier, lashes around and turns to the deep red of blood. Its long-forgotten symbols of power now whipping in the air like inflamed wounds.

"Crap, I am sorry-" he cuts my apologies short with a raised hand.

"Not your fault," Sirius sucks in a breath, cold fury flashing in his eyes for a split-second, "so you better can it. We'll have our reckoning with _him_ in time."

The lines of his face look even deeper in the candlelight and he doesn't meet my eyes. To Sirius, Hogwarts had been the last place he saw Pettigrew only a few months ago, as he, once more, managed to escape under the eyes of Professor Dumbledore and the Minister. The rat of a man who had betrayed him. Betrayed my parents.

Who had betrayed _me._

The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek. I avert my eyes from Sirius, focusing instead on the faint glowing stains on the sheets of his bed; remains of shed magical lifeblood that no spell could ever wash clean.

As the silence gets more and more unbearable, I risk a look back at him. The carefree smile has bleed from his face and Sirius is stiff as a cadaver, with one muscle spasming on his jaw and his eyes narrowed into slits.

"I see where you're coming from," he says through gritted teeth, "that bastard of a rat didn't exactly endear the place to me, either."

My laugh sounds hollow and too high-pitched in the somber mood of the room. "Hermione would've given you a piece of her mind about tact, she would."

But saying Hermione's name doesn't help. To me, she still looks like she did on the Hospital Wing, pale and clammy as made of marble. It brings back images of petrified bodies and yellow eyes and damp caves deep inside the earth.

 _The Basilisk uncoiled, enormous, its acid green scales glittering under the dim lights of the Chamber of Secrets. Next to it, Ginny Weasley—no, not Ginny, this could only be Tom Riddle—laughed in a cold, cruel voice that had no business coming from a little girl's mouth._

 _The serpent's magic was terrible to behold as it unfolded, made for ruin and for death. It was ingrained deep into flesh and sinew. A sharp, bitter cold, a thousand voices chorusing for me to just lie down. To let it taste warm blood again._

 _"Behind me, Harry!"_

 _Professor Dumbledore shoved me back. He was standing tall between the beast and me, his wand at ready. Magic erupted around him like a newborn sun as the old sorcerer rose to meet this new challenger._

 _"Kill them," Tom Riddle hissed._

"—Harry? Harry?"

Goosebumps run up my spine and my arm aches with phantom pain. That had been close—too close. Sirius' frantic voice is tinged with worry as he shakes my shoulder.

"I'm fine." Has my voice always been this raspy? "Peachy, even."

I press the palms of my hands on my eyes hard enough for bright spots to crop up on my vision. Sometimes, that gift is more like a curse, because seeing magic _is_ seeing intent and the Basilisk _reeked_ of murder.

Sirius is frowning as I look up to him. "Bad memories?"

"You could say that," Merlin, my smile even _sounds_ weak. "Say, what were you talking about?"

His jaw sets up into a grimace, but he doesn't pry. "I said I understand your situation."

"Come on now?"

"When Remus came to visit, I felt almost the same way," he says and the skin around his eyes tighten. "Twelve years, Harry, he'd spent twelve years hating me for something I didn't do. I resented him as you can't believe.

"I had all these ideas. How I wanted to scream at him, even throw a hex or two in the mix," Sirius then shakes his head and his lips twist into a wry grin. "I couldn't. Even after all this time, he's still Moony, my brother in all that matters. I couldn't."

The clear fondness he put in his words almost made me smile.

"Cute."

"Watch it," Sirius words lack any real heat though, "so, getting to the point. I reckon your friends will do the same, if they feel that about you, no matter how much time has passed. If they don't, well."

He trails off, his stare now fixed on a point of the ceiling. Sirius goes into these moods a lot less now, but it's still clear that twelve years of Azkaban had exacted its toll from him. Especially when talking of the past and his friends.

"If they don't?" Alarm bells go off in my head when he doesn't answer. "Sirius? Come off it already! _Padfoot_!"

"What?" he jerks back as he'd just been burned. "Oh. Righto. Then they can bugger off, I say."

A sigh of relief escapes from my lips as I get up and busy myself by picking a glass of water for him.

"Cheers, Padfoot, you have such a way with words."

"You bet I do." Sirius accepts the glass with a thankful nod. "Boy, you should've seen how I rolled in Hogwarts. The ladies couldn't help but love this animal magnetism."

"Until you piss on her shoes, yeah?" My chair clatters on the ground as I jump out from his reach. "Temper, temper, old man."

"I'll show you temper," he grumbles, "and don't joke about that. If your new year there is anything like the others, I will end up grey soon enough, and it'll be your own damn fault."

That's a bit rich coming from him, that sure is.

"Hey, I don't go searching for trouble-"

"Trouble finds you, I know," Sirius doesn't look too convinced though. "Care to tell me how you keep getting into trouble in the school while being _out_ of the damned school, then?"

"Well, you see." My lips split into a grin that wouldn't look out of place on Sirius' face. "I _did_ solemnly swear that I'm up to no good."

My timing is just right. Water comes spraying from Sirius' mouth as he howls with laughter.

* * *

There are few things that can rival the beauty of Hogsmeade at night.

When Professor Dumbledore brought me to London, I remember being dazzled by the sheer amount of different, unique people in just one place. Hogsmeade has the same feeling in a different flavor; instead of faces, I see magic in a thousand ways there.

The Dervixes and Banges' showcase glows like a Christmas tree even as the owner closes the shop's doors, the enchantments of all these objects put together mixing into a single kaleidoscope of colors. Near that, I catch a trace of a Self-Stirring enchantment on the window of the Three Broomsticks. The spell remains unique for barely a second before a wave of different symbols and runes and _people_ engulfs it back into the whole.

On a street that still has faded echoes of unidentifiable old spells, a wizard gives his dog a biscuit. Even this unassuming gesture evokes an answer from magic, as the primitive shapes that express the animal's raw existence glimmer and extend to caress the man's hand; every bit as real as the licks the dog is giving him.

I will repeat. _Magic is everywhere to those who can see it._

And from my vantage point on the second floor of the Hog's Head, I see it _all._

Adjusting my position on my old, well-used chair, I cross my arms behind my head and try to burn the sigh of the village in my mind for posterity.

Hey, is that the Gladrags' witch with a—

The sound of something crashing downstairs makes me jump.

Cursing under my breath, it takes only three steps for me to cross the entire breadth of my room and wrench the door open, wand in hand as I yell. "You okay here, Aberforth?!"

"Mind your own business!" he shouts back.

Well, good enough for me. He's clearly alright if he's still capable of these dulcet tones, must've been some reluctant patron keeping on his hair.

The door clicks as I close it and cast a look around for a distraction. A golden glint catches my eye, halfway hidden behind a stack of notes on my nightstand. There, behind all these papers, is a little, winged ball of gold.

The first Snitch I'd ever caught.

Arithmanthic circles of red and gold move like clockworks around the Snitch, its magic fading with age. I grab it and my own magic courses through my wand as I charge two of the arrays— _flying_ and _hidden_ —and the Snitch begins to swerve on the air once more.

 _The crowd roared as I held the Snitch up in my clenched fist and yelled in both triumph and happiness at my catch. My eyes turn to the sight of Ron and Hermione running down the stands, the two of them with enormous smiles._

I snatch the Snitch from the air as my gut twists with guilt. Except for some stolen moments in the two past years, Ron and Hermione hadn't been a constant in my life at all, _especially_ not smiling.

Especially after the Chamber of Secrets.

It's funny when you think about it. The day when we went through the trapdoor had been both the culmination and the end of our friendship, like a music going into a final crescendo. We were ready to die for each other right there and to be together until the end.

But then Voldemort exercised his own special way of turning gold into shit.

 _Quirrell screamed as my hands burned his skin. A voice—Voldemort, the git—was ordering him to do me in. He obliged, picking up his wand and pointing it to my face._

 _Call it instinct or anything, but I charged and grabbed his face, the Philosopher's Stone falling from my pocket in the process. I had to turn my nose at the sickly sweet smell of burned meat as his skin fizzled under my hands._

 _His curse missed me by inches—but it didn't miss the Stone._

 _It exploded._

 _Pain. Pain different, but not lesser, than the agony in my scar that was almost splitting my head open. Pain more visceral than anything my body had experienced before, pain right in my eyes._

 _My world was made or pure black and it hurt to blink. Something hot was dripping from my face and all it remained for me to do is to keep holding Quirrell. Even as everything went down, and down, and down._

 _Someone called my name just as unconsciousness took hold of me._

Merlin, my _everything_ hurt like hell for days after that. Even now, my throat feels a bit parched at the mere thought. A cup of water downstairs sounds perfect, maybe a word or two with Aberforth.

The chair groans in protest as I get up and out of my bedroom.

True to the norm, Aberforth's down there pushing the doors closed.

If you want to find how Aberforth looks, go and pick Professor Dumbledore. Then you throw him on the Forbidden Forest for a decade or so, mix and stir, then you'll have your own Aberforth Dumbledore.

He's tall and thin, his beard and hair are as long as his brother's but look far wilder and untamed. If you squint and turn sideways, you can even see some familiar resemblance, but that's it.

The picture is finished by the trustworthy rag he has over his shoulder, dirty and frayed, looking every bit like Godric Gryffindor's own used loincloth. How he manages to clean anything with that, no one can ever understand.

Thinking about it, nor do I really want to.

"You should wash this thing, y'know," I say, sitting on a stool that sports the crimson traces of a Scorching Hex. "It's _dirty,_ Abe _."_

"I reckon you should mind your own business," Aberforth says as he bends down to pick something from under the counter. "Merlin's breeches, boy, what're you doing up and about at this ungodly hour?"

He throws one Butterbeer to me and I catch it almost by reflex, flicking the cap off with the ease of experience. "Thinking."

"Dangerous thing, you doing that is."

"Funny." I roll my eyes and take a swig from the bottle."If you want to know, I was thinking about tomorrow. Sirius helped a bit, but—well, he's Sirius. He thinks it'll be a swell old prank."

Aberforth gives me a look that's eerily reminiscent of his brother.

"Understandable, the man spent twelve years inside that hellhole. You go and try to buddy up with Dementors for that long and tell me how it goes."

My nose wrinkles in disgust at his mention of these _things_. I have no intention of coming anywhere a mile close to a Dementor again. Their magic was like a vacuum, a hole in the reality; full of hungry tendrils of nothingness and always twisting into shapes that hurt to look at.

"Hey." Now, to change the subject. "D'you remember when I moved here?"

"Worst day of my life," he promptly answers. "Here I am, tending to my clients, and from the horizon comes Albus _bloody_ Dumbledore with his new _apprentice_. Not on a white horse, oh no, but with a bandaged midget who happens to be blind as a Cannons' fan."

"I'm sorry if the bits of Philosopher's Stone in my eyes inconvenienced you, so very sorry," my breath comes out in a long-suffering sigh. "At least it saved me from the hassle of glasses though."

"Don't you take this tone with me, lad," Aberforth grumbles as he begins to clean some glasses with the rag. The rag, you know, the one which is many, many times dirtier than anything on this side of a dump.

We stand there in a companionable silence until he turns to me again.

"If you ask me, this teenage woe-be-me you're fancying? It's a load of Hippogriff dung," he says, making me almost spit the Butterbeer in shock. Aberforth talking about _feelings_?

"What?" My voice comes strangled between coughs. "Why?"

"I see it all over your face." Aberforth points to me. "Oh yes, right there. You've lived here for two years and I got your measure alright. Stiff as dragon scales while facing mortal peril, a complete wreck when given stern talking-to."

My lips twitch at that, but he doesn't stop.

"You want advice? Here's some. Go and deal with it as it comes. Merlin knows that, as much as my brother tries to do just that, no one can predict the future or change the past. What happened, happened, and it does no good to anyone to dwell on these things."

Even if the _"as much as I want it to be different"_ he says under his breath isn't my imagination, there's no point to ask him about that. Everybody deserves his own secrets and I would be a bloody hypocrite to go bugging him about his.

Catching up on the finality of the mood, I bid him goodbye and went back up to my room. On the way, I pause to catch the sight of my reflection in an old, smudged mirror.

To be honest, it would be a lie to say that my eyes, still green but now twinkling with hidden stars— _Katie's_ definition, not mine—don't look pleasant to me. The rest of my face, though, tired and too much on the pale side is a completely different matter. Then I look a little upwards and see _it._

There's a foulness in my forehead, right on the scar, a _stench_ of the blackest magic that I suppose to be the remains of the Killing Curse. It's shackled by strands of gold and white which echoes with an ancient magic that I can't hope to understand, but I like to think of as being the protection evoked by my mother's sacrifice; a mark of her love that only _I_ can see.

Rubbing my scar absently-minded, I stop on the doorstep of my room, pick my wand and cast _Tempus_.

To anyone else, the spell _Tempus_ only shows the time it has been cast. Yet, there's more to it—much, much more. I look deeper into the inner workings of the spell, appreciating how my own magic comes out of my wand in a nimbus of particles and catches the ambient energy, charging it through two _Numerologic Matrixes_ , which, then, put the result through _Kaunaz_ —the rune of understanding—to make the numbers visible.

A simple piece of magic, so full of secrets to those who could see. These things unraveled before me in what seemed like an eternity but, in reality, couldn't be more than a split second.

With a nonchalant wave of my wand inside the spell, I change the color of the numbers to purple.

Two after midnight—I should catch some sleep.

My fingers run along the walls of my bedroom and the carpet muffles my steps inside. Not an enormous room in any way, mind you, but it looks cozy and well lived. There's a Quidditch poster on the wall, this one being a gift from the twins, and a stand for my broom, a desk, and a comfortable bed. There were even some pictures, the biggest of them being of my penultimate birthday here, with the team and even Abe lurking on a corner.

The best thing about living above the Hog's Head, though, is absent. The hubbub of people downstairs, shouting and arguing and laughing, all of them unique and interesting.

The sound of _life._

The wards glimmer as Aberforth stomps up the stairs to his bedroom and the soothing light of the enchantments circle around me like a cage made of stardust.

I never managed to grow up from my Muggleish fascination with magic and, as my finger touch a blue mote in the shape of the rune _Algiz_ , it seems impossible for me to ever do. The rune dissolves in sparkles on the air, going back to the whole.

"Potter!" Aberforth shouts from his bedroom. "Stop messing with magic here! My cabinet just caught on fire, damn you!"

"Sorry Abe!" my answer is drowned out by his string of curses.

He curses even more as he hears my laughter. Living with Aberforth is fun, he's a good bloke—a bit rough around the edges, but nothing I can't deal with. He's earned my loyalty easily as he helped me during the time that, for all intents and purposes, my eyes were useless.

There are downsides, obviously, as living in the Hog's Head makes it hard for me to interact with people from around my age. I had almost no contact with other students, except for the Hogsmeade weekends when my Quidditch mates came to visit—and to risk a guess, Fred and George probably shanghaied them into adopting me or something after the Chamber.

My eyes fall back to the portraits on my nightstand.

These were the days. Just flying with them without a care in the world.

The memories came, unbidden, scenes of me and the twins just talking about everything and nothing. Wood breaking down in hysterical tears as I said I wouldn't be coming back but was still game to help them train. Katie blushing when she said _that_ about my eyes for the first time, while Angelina and Alicia giggled—

My alarm clock went off.

Merlin, it's _already_ three past midnight.

Muffling a yawn with the back of my hand, I lean on the windowsill and take a last look at the village. Even as the need for sleep wrestled my mind to the ground, the sight of the castle on the horizon makes my breath hitch in my throat.

 _Hogwarts_.

I still remember the sound of the castle doors closing behind me; the pain from seeing the enormous amount of magic from the castle and the students almost searing my eyes just two years before. Now, though? After Professor Dumbledore took me under his wing and taught me _control_?

It is a damn nice sight to behold.

Few things are beautiful as Hogsmeade at night, but Hogwarts gives it a good run for its money. The castle looks magnificent, its towers cutting through the sky, majestic and alluring as ever. The magic surrounding the school, visible even from distance, feels warm and welcoming. Like the best things in the world—full of life and enthusiasm. It's almost like an old friend greeting me back, knowing I couldn't be gone for long.

It feels like home.

My eyelids flutter closed, apparently deciding by their own that enough was enough. Still too caught up in thinking about Hogwarts, though, my mind drifts back to that night before the Mirror of Erised. The night I finally met Albus Dumbledore one-on-one and he gave me the tools to fight and win against Voldemort.

He'd asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement— _back again, Harry?_

 _Yes, Professor,_ my smile is full of promises, _at long last, I am back.  
_


	2. Chapter II

**Disclaimer** : I own nothing.  
This story is better viewed in the 3/4 format.

 **The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.**

* * *

 _"You better not even contemplate the thought of entering yourself into this blasted thing Albus cooked with these foreign schools, do you hear me, young man? I swear to every god under the sky and beyond, if I catch even a sniff about you being close to the Triwizard Tournament, you'll be sorry. Very sorry, indeed!"_

— Madam Pomfrey to Harry Potter at the Hospital Wing, next to the plaque " _Propriety of Harry Potter_ ".

* * *

No one would ever call The Hog's Head anything even close to a respectable environment, but by the magic, credit needs to be given where it's due—the place is always interesting.

I put down my Daily Prophet (" _Who ditched who at the Quidditch World Cup_ " and " _Black is back, and looks whiter than we thought_ ") on the counter and cast a look around.

Two hags are lurking on a corner, busying themselves over plates of raw liver; their magic looks untamed, the symbols of power twisting like welts and gaping maws around them as blood drip from their chins.

There's a tall wizard on the table next to the window, sorting through a bag of Newt's eyes and mumbling under his breath. His magic is coiled as a string and spasms with the slightest noise; a contrast is offered by the innate magic of his wand, which expresses itself in clear, hermetic sigils.

Probably second-handed, it seems.

What could be the story behind this? Did he lose his wand recently and is using a poor replacement, or maybe he stole one? There isn't the slightest resonance between his magic the wand's own and, to my experience, it only happens with truly horrible matches.

With only one exception.

A grunt by my side alerts me to Aberforth's presence as he puts a mug behind me, the smell of steamy coffee wafting pleasantly from it. His magic is familiar, rigid and unyielding. Solid as an ancient, gnarled tree during a thunderstorm; it churns around him like a cloud made of raw iron.

My thank you to him comes in the form of an elbow to the ribs.

"Abe, Abe," my voice descends to a whisper. "Abe."

"The hell you're doing that for?" he elbows me right back. If his mood isn't clue enough, it's obvious to anyone with functional eyes that Aberforth isn't an early riser. His hair is more disheveled than ever and his eyes, almost completely hidden behind dirty spectacles, look bleak.

"Would you look at this, that Hag's been bitten by a Flobberworm."

"And I should care, why?"

"Abe," the corners of my mouth twitch, "Flobberworms don't have teeth."

The look that Aberforth gives me is very akin to one of distaste.

I raise my hands in defeat. "Gee, just a joke from Professor Dumbledore."

"Figures. You and Albus are both cuts of the same underwear lad," Aberforth says, "you two aren't all there by a long, long way. Maybe that's why he likes you so much, Merlin knows I don't."

His own magic contradicts his words as it extends to me, forming an almost solid wall of between myself and the world; my smile at this, though, remains safely hidden behind my mug of coffee.

There's a familiar sense of belonging as Hedwig comes through the window, startling that Newts' fellow in the process. Her magic is connected to mine by many strands of gold, like heavy chains we gladly took upon ourselves.

She perches on my shoulder and, by the virtue of long-conditioned reaction, I offer her some owl treats from my pocket. She takes one and gives me a nip on the ear by the way of thanks.

"No need to thank me, girl."

Aberforth looks at me like I've finally lost my marbles. "I didn't."

"And you ain't no girl either, I was talking to Hedwig."

"Right, the owl," Aberforth shakes his head, "because talking to an owl is a perfectly normal thing to do, why you," he then glances at his watch. "Did Albus at least have the decency to tell you when he's coming?"

"Haven't the foggiest. Professor Dumbledore said he'll come after the rest of the people arrive on the Express, so maybe seven, seven-thirty?"

"Good, so there's enough time for you to get off your lazy ass up and stash the Butterbeers from that crate," he points a thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

"You joking."

"Am I? If you think I'll let you slack off just because you are leaving, you have another thing coming," his lips then twist into a _terrifying_ smirk. "The owl can even accompany you, as I'm now on the known about how she makes for a good conversation."

Will the wonders never cease, Aberforth Dumbledore has a sense of humor.

I grin back at him, "I'm so going to get you back for this."

Aberforth hand inches toward his wand, but he freezes as Hedwig fix him with a stern glare.

I let out an impressed whistle, "taking lessons from Professor McGonagall now, aren't we?"

She cuffs my head with her wing, still looking at Aberforth.

"For the first time on your life lad, just obey and go," the old man is the first to look away from the staring contest with the bird, "and seriously, take the blasted pidgeon with you. She makes the people 'round here nervous."

"No need to get shirty," Hedwig hoots in disapproval just as my empty mug clinks back on the table, the coffee now nothing more than a soothing warmth within my stomach. "Back me up here, Hedwig, Abe's being grumpy."

Hedwig then turns to me and a very real shiver crawl up my spine as I see the look on her eyes. Maybe the true path of less resistance here is for me to keep my mouth shut and do as Aberforth asked—and she _ordered_.

Yeah, definitely taking lessons from McGonagall, this one sure is.

* * *

A knock on the door startles me, making me drop A Numerous Numerology Compendium right on my feet. The book has some two thousand pages and a steel binding, so it's not a nice feeling.

"Shite! Of all the damn—"

My complaint dies as the Wards swirl in a familiar way, sampling the magic of the visitor and running it through its enchantments. The process is done in less than a second and they lift back to their quiet state, but it gives me time enough to recognize the newcomer's magic.

"Come in, Professor!"

The door opens and, true to my thoughts, the Headmaster is here. He waits by the door frame, clad in garish, purple robes dotted with golden sphinxes and pyramids, and his ever-present half-moon glasses are precariously balanced on his crooked nose.

"Good night, Harry," he steps inside. "I hope I am not intruding?"

"No way, Professor. How're you?"

"I am well," his eyes light up with amusement as he looks to me, "however, am I to understand that you decided to follow my personal opinion about fashion statements?"

Heat creeps up my cheeks as his words sink in, I'd forgotten to take off my Puddlemere United sombrero after annoying Abe enough with it. The Headmaster raises an eyebrow.

"Though, if I can offer some advice, the hat lacks a certain _je ne sais quoi_ if you don't have a full grown beard. Maybe in some years?"

"Gah," my face positively glows with embarrassment as I take the hat off as fast as humanly possible and throw it over my shoulder. "Huh, sure. Thank you?"

His chuckles make me feel very lame.

"I see you haven't finished packing," Dumbledore says, surreptitiously peeking around the bedroom to the books and clothes strewn on every surface. "May I be of help?"

"Sure, and sorry for the hassle. I would've had finished earlier, but I was caught up writing to Sirius and—"

"It's quite alright," he says and, with a practiced wave of his wand, everything I owned went neatly into my trunk, which closes with a snap.

Professor Dumbledore's magic looks like the ocean to me—deep and full of mysteries, every layer shadowing more and more intricate designs that glitter around him, at the same time being delicate as fractals made of glass and full of sheer, raw strength, that none could stand up against.

His wand, though? It's the exception of the rule about resonance.

Where his magic looks calm and collected, the wand's magic is savage and combative, its inner clockworks of light smaller and more numerous than anything else, so complex that my eyes hurt just from looking. The very air trembles around the wand, the shapes within it twisting and ready to unleash overwhelming, primal magic, with all the sense of inevitability of a gravestone.

Finesse and power weaved seamlessly together and even greater than the sum of their parts for it.

It takes a while for me to wrench my eyes from that sight and motion to and pick the trunk, but Professor Dumbledore's raised hand stop me.

"A House-Elf will be sent to bring your belongings to the Gryffindor Tower," he then peers at me over his spectacles. "Do you have your Portkey necklace on you?"

"There" I finger the thin, delicate chain hidden under my shirt, it looks unassuming and light, but its magic is strong. "I reckon I'll still need to use it while in Hogwarts, then?"

"Alas, I think so, especially in the wake of the Quidditch World Cup and the pain in your scar. After all, one does best when a precaution already taken is found to be unneeded, than if it's absent on the time of necessity."

"Eh, sure, and talking about that, did they catch someone?"

"I don't think so," Dumbledore runs a hand through his beard. "Cornelius seems to have divined, by methods unknown, that it was only a ruse to demoralize his Ministry to the foreign attendants."

I affect a surprised look. "He thinks? That's news for you."

"It _does_ sound far-fetched sometimes, doesn't it? But your very well-known grievances with Cornelius aside, there's anything else you want to get? That marvelous cloak of yours, perhaps?"

"Already in my pocket."

"Excellent," he smiles and beckons for me to follow, "so off we go."

Just as we go down the stairs, though, I stop dead at the sight that greets me there.

Aberforth has already closed for the night, so he's almost alone behind the bar with a glass of Firewhisky at hand. The strange thing is, there's someone else lounging on a stool next to him.

Professor Dumbledore motion for me to go and his eyes are alight with amusement as I practically run down the steps and pull the man here into a one-armed hug.

"I wasn't told you had picked up a stray in the way, Professor!"

"Oi!" Sirius playfully shoves me away, his smile big as my own. "Stray? Stray? I'll have you know that, as my dear mother put it, I am of finest breeding!"

"You say your mother has dragon-dung for brains too, so there's that."

"Dragon dung for brains and a black hole for a heart, more likely," he nods and motions for me to sit down. "The Butterbeer is for you, by the way."

"Gee, thanks," but my smile falters slightly as, next to me, Professor Dumbledore exchanges a rather cool greeting with Aberforth, "and thank you too for bringing him, Professor."

A bit of Dumbledore's tenseness bleeds away just then. "It was nothing, my boy. Young Sirius isn't fully discharged yet, but his Healers happen to agree with me that he could take a moment or two to see your off. Perhaps—" he hesitates, looking back to Aberforth, "perhaps he can take residence here in the future, after he is well?"

Aberforth frowns. "I'm not running a resort here, Albus."

Seeing how a rat has just come squirreling from a corner, I certainly hope not.

"Why, Aberforth, it's like you don't like me anymore," Sirius interjects.

Aberforth scoffs. "I never did, lad. You and your little gang made too much trouble here for that," he then takes another sip of his Firewhisky. "I thought the Blacks had a house somewhere in London?"

"They do, but it's no more home to me than Azkaban," Sirius' eyes harden and, for a second, the shadow of the man in these wanted posters pass through his face.

The silence after that is uncomfortable.

Finally, Aberforth eyes meet Professor Dumbledore's own and he grumbles something under his breath that could pass for agreement. "D'you know how to mix drinks, lad?"

Sirius seems to regain some of his humor as he smiles. "The best."

"I will be the judge of that," Aberforth states, "no one lazes about under my roof, as the boy here very well knows. So you better put in the work if you are to live here— _and stop with the damned twinkle_ , Albus!"

Professor Dumbledore looks away, his beard twitching, and Sirius barks a laugh. We shot the breeze for some time while Dumbledore talks with Aberforth in rushed tones until a sharp whistle from the outside interrupt us.

"Excuse me, it's time for us to go," Professor Dumbledore announced, finishing his talk to his brother with a sharp nod and turning to Sirius. "After the feast, I'll come back to accompany you to St. Mungus, if it's agreeable."

"Sweet, gives Abe and I time to catch up then."

"What now?" Aberforth answers, looking startled.

"Harry," Sirius ignores him as he turns to me, fondness and undercurrents of uncharacteristic seriousness clear in his voice, "think about what we talked yesterday, and well—just try to enjoy yourself a little here, yeah? Merlin knows you deserve it.

"Maybe I should tell Voldemort this?" I snort. " _Dear Tom, my pumpkin juice isn't agreeing with my complexion today. Maybe you can call off on trying to kill me until next week? Love, Harry_."

Sirius slaps my head. "That's not funny."

"Why? As much as this one," I point over my shoulder to Professor Dumbledore, "says that love is the greatest magic there is, I've half a mind to go and try to hug Voldemort into submission."

"This information shall please Severus greatly," Dumbledore says and, at my look of sheer incredulity, he rapidly amends, "you see, he has been voicing his opinions concerning this matter for quite some time."

" _Snape_ —"

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore interrupts.

"This one, yes," I wave him off, "he talks about hugs and Voldemort?"

"No," he looks fully amused now, "but he indeed agrees that you only possess half of a mind."

There's a beat of silence as I stare at him, open-mouthed. Then Sirius doubles down with laughter and even I can't help but follow him in doing that.

It takes a few seconds and a pointed cough from Dumbledore for Sirius to calm down enough to talk. Even then, he's still snickering as he turns to me.

"Sorry, sorry," he says "let's get back on track. You have the map?"

"Yes, mom." Sirius makes a face at my answer.

"Good, very good, and just remember—"

"— _to solemnly swear I am up to no good,_ " I complete, smiling back at him.

He grabs my shoulder again, this time smiling widely, before making an idiotic excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. Classic strategic exit technique from these emotional talks, so I don't comment on that.

Instead, I turn to Aberforth.

"What you want now?"

"Just to thank you," I answer, shutting him up for the first time as he looks at me like he's seeing me for the first time. "Seriously, the time I spent here was the best."

Aberforth snorts. "So it was. Maybe I can get some peace now."

"Wouldn't bet on that," I grin as Professor Dumbledore ushers me in direction of the door, "after all, Sirius here is anything but boring—then there are the Hogsmeade weekends."

Poor Aberforth, he looks like someone has just canceled Christmas.

I wave cheerily back to him. "See you, Abe, Sirius!"

As I went after Dumbledore, though, I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Then I promptly laugh again at Aberforth's expression of utter horror as Sirius yells from the bathroom about the whereabouts of Madam Rosmerta, all my worries are forgotten for these few, precious seconds.

* * *

Even soaked to the bone as I am, I can't hope to keep the smile off my face.

Hogwarts still looks beautiful.

The castle is just as made of magic as it is of stone and masonry. In these walls, an infinite number of spells glows, interwoven together at every single inch, entrancing as ever. The ambient magic of generations upon generations of wizards that made their mark here—every jinx, every hex the students ever did, all of it compound like whispers of light upon the magic of the castle, until there's nothing to describe it but alive.

One of Professor Dumbledore favorite quotes is how Hogwarts will always be home to those who come back to it—and as the enchantments of that stronghold of ancient magic wash over me, I have to agree with him.

The castle echoes—echoes with laughter and tears, of magic to either help or harm, with the footsteps of everyone who dedicated part of their lives to these halls. It beckons me, welcomes me back, and misses me. Like it was a piece of myself which had finally returned to the whole.

"Are you ready?" Professor Dumbledore says, nonchalantly waving his wand at me. I feel warmth rushing through my body, drying my clothes instantly—and wiping the look of childlike glee from my face with it.

"No," I answer with honesty, "not really, no."

"Excellent!" he then beams, startling me and gesturing for me to follow him. "In my experience, when one feels like being fully prepared for an occasion, it tends to backfire extraordinarily."

"And if one isn't prepared?"

"That, Harry, is when things get _interesting_ ," Dumbledore then waves in the direction of the Great Hall. "Indeed, we could think about your next steps—and I risk being preposterous, mine—as the foray into a new adventure. One that I find myself quite curious to see how it goes."

Despite my own growing anxiety as we approach the Great Hall and the sound of people talking gets louder, I smile. "Not the next great adventure, I hope."

Professor Dumbledore pauses for a second at my remark, then comes closer to me and his voice sunks to a conspiratorial whisper. "No, not the next great adventure—the next medium-sized adventure, perhaps, or even a bit less. In any case, I suspect it will be interesting. Doesn't you agree?"

The fact he looked completely serious saying that is too much and I laugh again, shaking my head with incredulity. I will never meet someone stranger or amazing as Professor Dumbledore, but I am alright with that—the one I know is already _quite_ enough.

"I think the Sorting is underway," he says. "Come with me."

The laughter dies instantly in my throat as he opens the doors.

Silence. Silence everywhere as every single person on the Great Hall turns to stare at me. Only the steady hand of Professor Dumbledore in my shoulder as we walk make me feel slightly confident as I turn a searching look to the Gryffindor table.

I stop dead as I see them.

Ron and Hermione are sitting together and, when our eyes met, they turn away at once. I feel a jolt of regret as I remember, clear as it had been just yesterday, the occasion our relationship began to sour.

 _The first thing I saw in the Hospital Wing was Hermione lying down in a bed—immobile, paralyzed, her arm still held up as she was made of stone. I ran to her, trying to catch her hand and comfort her somehow, but she felt cold. She felt wrong._

 _When I looked to Ron, he's pale and I saw that his blue eyes were rimmed with red._

 _"What—what happened with her? Ron?!"_

 _He scowled. "Now you want to know, don't you?"_

 _I jerked back with surprise. "Ron, I couldn't—"_

 _"You couldn't?!"_

 _He rounded on me. "How can you say that? You go away for a whole year while everything goes to absolute hell and you just come here, looking concerned as you please, then you try to get off with excuses like that? Of course, you couldn't, Harry! Because you weren't there to help her!" he was screaming now, his face inches to mine. "Together we could've had this thing solved! We did it last year and we could do that again, but you weren't there for her! We, we trusted you—I trusted you!"_

 _He shoved me, his voice growing hoarse and quiet as he slumped at Hermione's side and took her hand for himself, looking like the picture of defeat itself. "Just, just go away. Go back to the Headmaster and let us be. That's all you know how to do, these days."_

 _Ron didn't look back to me._

That old guilt makes a reappearance as they don't bother to make way for me to sit here. I try to ignore that and Dumbledore glances at me, giving an encouraging nod.

"Harry! Come here!"

I turn in the direction of the voice and the twins catch my eyes, exuberantly—too exuberant to not have an understanding about what'd just happened—and gesticulating for me to sit with them. I embrace the offer with both hands.

"Oi, Lee! Budge away," Fred says, opening a space for me to sit there. "Here he comes!"

"Fred, George Lee," I thank them warmly, then turn to look at the other people next to me and my smile isn't forced in the slightest. "Katie, Angelina, Alicia! How are you, girls?"

Katie, the nearer one, gives a peck in my cheek as they return my greeting, her strawberry-blonde hair tickling my skin as she does. Alicia and Angelina are more reserved but still greets me warmly.

"So," George wiggles his eyebrows at me, "back for good, this time?"

"Don't be daft George, he's probably here to get rid of another Defence Professor," Fred completes, his voice getting low as McGonagall glares at him from next to the Sorting Hat. "You're out of luck though, the new one isn't here yet."

I shake my head. "No way, I've had my fill with Lockhart."

"What was the deal with him, actually?" Angelina butted in, her eyes glinting with barely restrained curiosity. "All we know is that Dumbledore sent the ponce packing before the feast with a tea strainer up his-"

"Long, long story," I wave her off and look around, feeling the weight of half of the entire Great Hall staring me. "Care to tell me why they're looking at me like that? It's kinda stranger than the norm."

"You see, Harry, there are all kinds of rumors floating around. About where you ended up and all," Angelina pauses to cast a disgusted look at the gawking students. "Honestly, some are completely absurd."

I turn to the twins. "What did you two arses do?"

"Not our fault, old boy," Fred gives me a winning smile. "Wanna to field this one, George?"

"Don't mind if I do," George gestures for us to come closer. "So, best one I've ever heard. There's this Hufflepuff second-year telling his friends that you somehow went into Atlantis and is busy cooking up an army of trained killer whales to take over the Ministry."

Lee gives a sagely nod. "The Ministry, ya know, the one smack-dab in the middle of London."

"What?" I lose my voice for a second or two. "They... they're thinking I've become The Boy Who Lived To Be a Fisherman or something like that? That's bollocks."

Fred looks me up and down. "To be honest, first time I saw your hair I thought a sea urchin had somehow gotten into King's Cross..."

"After your first Quidditch match, though, we agreed you were most likely to be a rather clever octopus," George completes.

"Now I think about it, little Katie here would like that," Fred says pleasantly. "All these tentacle-"

"Fred!" Alicia punches him in the shoulder, her face red as they come. "Stop taking the mickey of her and shut it. Dumbledore is going to speak!"

I turn to the Staff Table and, true as she says, Dumbledore has gotten up and silence falls on the Great Hall.

"Welcome, for a new year in Hogwarts! Now, if you let me deprive you of sampling the gorgeous cooking of the House-Elves for a small moment, I would like for you all to give a round of applause to a student that, at long last, returns to our midst! I'm talking, of course, about Harry Potter."

That did it. There's a boom of applause, mainly coming from the people around me and none louder than Fred and George, who are yelling again that familiar chorus of _"we got Potter, we got Potter!"_ at the top of their lungs.

I wrench my sight of them as Angelina nudges me.

"And good thing we do," Angelina's still watching their antics with an appreciative smile. "You know, you're lucky Oliver isn't there, he kind of lost it last year."

"Why?"

"You," Kate answers flatly. "He went on and on about how you're the greatest Seeker, even the best thing since sliced bread really. Almost reduced poor Demelza to tears every time she missed the Snitch," she adds, shaking her head despondently. "Mind you, she wasn't all that great at it, either."

"That little twit Malfoy didn't do any better though," Lee points out as he finally comes down back to his seat, "what about the match lasting six hours because none of these two caught the blasted thing. My throat was sore for a week."

"Pay attention," Alicia hushed us, "the Headmaster's going to speak again."

We turn as one when Professor Dumbledore raises a hand for silence. At the changing of subject, I proceed to make a double take at the sights in the Great Hall. Magic is coming from everywhere and I know, just know, that a year or two ago all of that would give me a migraine at best.

It's a study in contrasts, everyone's signature looking quite different to me.

I probably am the only soul who can tell the difference between the twins with only a passing glance; Fred's magic being just a bit more stable and hard-edged than George's, which tries to drink and transform everything around him.

Angelina's magic looks solid and heavy as it wraps her body. Alicia's had a note of rationality that I relate, most of the times, to the Ravenclaws, ever-changing into equations made of light and logic. Katie, the youngest of the team except myself, is all fire and curiosity and passion, redder than blood and focused like a battering ram as she concentrates on Professor Dumbledore's speech.

Ron is talking to Hermione in hushed tones, his magic coiled, turbulent as a storm spitting sparks so fiery I feared would burn someone. Hermione's magic, though, is both reaching to him and trying to sort the whole world at the same time, otherwise condensed into a bubble of clarity through which she observed everything.

Idly, I appreciate the peculiarity of Neville's magic as Dumbledore tells us that Throwable Pimples were now forbidden—it's mostly static; like his magic is trying to push the world and to hold him up at the same time, but seems vast nonetheless. He has potential.

I look at the Professors. The new chap teaching Defence Against the Dark arts still hasn't made his presence known, which was surprising by itself, but the rest of them are very interesting.

Snape, I see, looks most unpleasant—kind of like the look he's giving me—his magic guarded and full of vicious barbs and sharp edges, forming a cage around himself and ready to lash out; it has a single mote of green light deep at its center and a foulness in his arm.

McGonagall's magic is uncluttered and well-ordered, but morphs constantly as it's being blown by the winds of change, mutating and yet remaining the same. Flitwick, a delight of colors and shapes that one couldn't help but smile at, and—

"What?!" I surge to my feet, yelling at the top of my lungs with Fred and George as Professor Dumbledore says there won't be any Quidditch this year. Every Quidditch nut in the Great Hall rises up as one and make their disagreement about it clear in loud tones.

Dumbledore raises his hand to silence us again and keep going.

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts— "

But what would happen in Hogwarts, we weren't to know. The doors bang open and I recoil at the sight of who are just coming through them.

Darkness. Terrible, all-encompassing, darkness—a void within a chorus of voices hissing with pain wand stabbing viciously around him with knives of fire, seemingly searching for an outlet. I narrow my eyes and fight back the urge to vomit as bile surge up my throat.

"Harry," George shakes my shoulder, "d'you know who's he?"

"It's Mad-Eye Moody!" Fred says, his eyes wide with surprise. "He's an old friend of Dad's, a legend in the Ministry—the best Auror they ever had!"

"Nutty as a fruitcake though," George adds, giving him an appreciating look. "Dad had to bail him out just this morning, something about brawling dustbins."

Dumbledore's declaration repeats what they had told me, as he shakes the man's hand and announces him as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. I force myself to look at Moody—not at his magic, but the person underneath. He's a mass of scars and disfigurements, there's even a wooden leg poking from under his robes, but that isn't the most singular thing about him.

That honor belongs to his eyes.

One is beady and has a shrewd glint in it, but the other is a vivid blue, bulging and swerving around without any care for the movements of the black eye, at times looking at the back of his owner's own head.

"Creepy fellow," I mutter under my breath, but no one takes notice because Dumbledore decides just then to drop a veritable bomb on us—about the Triwizard Tournament.

"You're joking!" Fred yells and the Headmaster reassures him he isn't. I turn to Lee and poke him to catch his attention, as the twins seem to be lost in their own world at the news.

"What's with that?" I ask him. "Never heard about that before."

It was Dumbledore, though, that answered the question. "The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities—until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

I whistle and nudge Katie's shoulder. "Very friendly, that thing sure is."

She muffles a giggle under her hand. "Too true."

"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore continues, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.

"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, eternal glory, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

The world goes still.

 _Eternal glory._

Dumbledore's words are an echo in my mind. Eternal, undying glory. I catch his eyes for a second or two and there's a gleam I can't very well identify in them. My heart pounds in my chest as I give him all my focus.

He had my interest, but now he gets my _attention_.

"I am going for it," Fred declares fervently, which is an opinion that seems to be shared by the school as a whole. "A thousand galleons George! A thousand, I never smelled that much money."

"Mortal danger, Fred," Alicia points out.

"Still going for it," he answers, stubbornly, and rub his hands together.

It takes all of me to not rise up my feet and yell as Dumbledore adds that only people older than seventeen years could enter the tournament, which excluded me from it, and there's a feeling in my gut like I just had lost something.

"Who must be that impartial judge?" George asks after the outrage about the age limit washes off, scratching his chin in thought. "What d'you reckon, Fred?"

"Dunno," Fred shrugs, "but we'll need to find how to bamboozle him."

"Seriously, boys?" Alicia pipes up, a fond smile twisting her lips even as she tries to look stern. "It is Dumbledore we are talking about, I can't even imagine he letting it happen—I bet the judge isn't even a person."

"An enchantment, perhaps?" Angelina asks, looking every bit as she is thinking about entering. I have the realization she's just of right age and has all the right to, and I bite my lip to try and not show the envy I feel.

"If it is, Harry can help us," Fred and George turn to me as one.

I reel back, feeling frankly alarmed, as their question mirror my thoughts. I turn to Katie, giving a pleading look, and she comes to the rescue by slapping George's head. "Down, boy, there's no need of talking about it tonight—and Harry has already enough in his plate."

"Actually, I am still waiting for Lee to pass me the treacle tart."

Katie gives me a withering glare. "Metaphorical plate, Harry."

Looking not a bit ashamed after that berating, the twins shared a look.

"Sure," Fred said, mouthing _later_ under his breath to George, who nodded.

 _An enchantment_ , perhaps? I try to catch Dumbledore's eyes again and decipher what he meant by that, but he turned to speak to Moody, who I had no desire to see again this soon.

The discussions around me are just white noise as I busy myself by eating, my mind's a mess of probabilities about the future and possible methods to mask my age. Dumbledore's words about mortal peril feature prominently in my thoughts, but there's a little voice drowning them.

 _That's exactly what you wanted, innit?_ the voice says, _a chance to show what you're made of, to prove yourself to the world? To_ him _?_

I almost don't catch up in the fact that the feast had just ended.

"Still, money isn't everything," Alicia says as we get up.

"Bully to everything then, we need that money," Fred disagrees vehemently.

"What for?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"Well, you see," George begins, "there's this idea about a joke shop called Weasley Wizard Wheezes that we were working into during all the summer on. You wouldn't believe the things we did for that—my ear's still half bitten by a Carking Crumpet, but I digress—"

They keep talking to me about their future plans all the way up to the Gryffindor Tower. The little part of me that's paying attention can't help but be impressed and ask for more information, as it sounds like quite the wonderful thing.

When I come back to my senses, sitting by the fire in the Common Room, I find myself being already conscripted into helping them with the enchantments in his products.

With a last argument extolling the virtues of turning someone into a gyrating porcupine at will, the twins and Lee say their goodbyes and get up. The girls doing the same in the direction of their own dormitories, except Katie, who decided wait for a bit.

She stretches languidly in the chair at my side, but there's a knowing glint in her eyes.

"So," Katie begins conversationally, "that Triwizard thing. Seems to be a bit insane, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I smile at her a bit too quickly, "something like that."

She hums to herself, the comfortable silence between us extending until she decides to break it.

"But you still want to."

I almost choke in my own spit.

"Uh? What?"

"The Tournament," Katie giver me an exasperated look. "I saw the look in your eyes, Harry—the same look you have when you just've spotted the Snitch, and I saw how uncomfortable you were as they talked about it. You want to enter, don't you?"

"I don't-" I try to search for an appropriate answer, but Katie isn't to be deterred.

"Harry," her hand brushes my arm as she comes closer, "I am not here to tell you what to do. I'm not sure I don't even want to know all you're up to, but really? It's obvious."

"Right," I mull the words for a second before giving a sigh of defeat. "I'll admit, the thought has crossed my mind."

"I'll bet," she shakes her head. "Maybe there's a boyish appeal in entering, what about wizards comparing their wand-sizes," Katie then let out a laugh at my roll of eyes, "I don't really get it, myself. But then, I'm not a wizard like _you_ , am I?"

I look her up and down, "I sure as hell hope not."

She slaps my arm but laughs nonetheless. "You know what I mean."

I don't answer and run my fingers through my hair, trying to find the right words to say.

"Katie?" I finally ask and she turns to me. "You think I can do that?"

Katie fixes me with a glare and I have the weirdest feeling that I said something very stupid.

"Of course you can, _you're Harry Potter_. Though, to be honest," she pauses for a moment and it's fascinating how her blue eyes reflect the light from the flames, "I kinda don't want you to. We've just got you back and none of us want to lose you. Hell, I don't want to lose you, so even if you enter... be careful? Please?"

I look mutely at her and nod in agreement, don't trusting myself with words after how vulnerable she sounded by asking that. Regaining some of her cheerful nature then, Katie gives me another lingering kiss on my jaw and get up to go to her dormitory, but stops at the foot of the staircase.

"Don't worry, Harry," she shots back over her shoulder with a lazy smile. "I'll keep your secrets."

There's no power in Earth capable of making me feel ashamed for looking as she goes. _Damn_ girl.

A haze of contentedness settles in and I drag my chair closer to the fire, just as that persistent little thought crosses my mind again. What if I really entered the Tournament? What if I proved myself as not being just the Boy-Who-Lived or Dumbledore's Golden Boy to them and, more importantly, to myself? What if I tasted _triumph_ with the whole Wizarding World standing as my witness?

My eyelids feel like made of lead and the first hints of sleep begin to envelop me. Even as I close my eyes, though, all I can see are images of myself raising a silver cup as the entirety of Hogwarts screams my name and of the success of winning. Of a smiling face with twinkling eyes saying he's proud of my victory.

Eternal glory, huh?

All I can see is _greatness_.


	3. Chapter III

**Disclaimer** : I own nothing.  
This story is better viewed in the 3/4 format.

 **Rebel Rebel  
**

* * *

 _"Sometimes, Harry, if you are committed to a plan, there are situations when the lack of decisive action is worse than being reasonable and thinking it through. Let's pick the time I confronted_ Wormtail _as an example. Of course, I regret going after him, but if I hadn't tried to reason with the sniveling rodent and just roasted him on the spot, I wouldn't have lost twelve years in Azkaban. The lesson here is, if you, against all logic, decides to fight fire with fire, be sure that_ you _are the one casting_ Fiendfyre _."_

— Sirius Black to Harry Potter, before a session with the Mind Healers of St. Mungos.

* * *

I wake up as someone yells "time to go _potty_ , Potty!" in my ear.

My hand reaches for my wand as I jump from my seat, furiously blinking to discern the intruder fluttering in and out my fiend of vision, a spell already on my lips to counteract the threat with _extreme_ prejudice.

That's when I recognize his shrill laughter.

"What? _Peeves_! What are you doing there?" I ask, tenseness bleeding off me as I rub my ears. The Poltergeist just smiles and throws a stack of notes into the fireplace before zooming out, laughing like a madman all the while. Cursing under my breath, I ran my hand through my hair and look at the clock, deciding against going back to sleep again.

Still disgruntled, I venture into the dorm to take a bath and put the robes for today, taking care to not wake up any of my still sleeping dorm-mates, and then go down for breakfast. Some paintings see me and begin whispering between themselves, their magic well-worn and part of them as much as the paint is.

 _Weird_. This last step which sprouts raunchy limericks if you stomp on it is new.

Breakfast is a subdued affair and I take my time to look at the other students coming in, doing my damnedest to try and remember their names from my first year. There's that very well-endowed girl in the Hufflepuff table with red hair and a sharp, steely glint to herim magic; and one with black hair and violet eyes in the Slytherin's whose magic is a scalpel that dissects all around her, one step at a time.

A blonde girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, comes skipping into the Great Hall and her magic is simply—unique. Have you ever seen these mirrors in a fun-house? It's like her magic is made of these, folding upon themselves and reflecting shapes I don't understand.

Wait, is she coming here? _Yes_. Yes, she is.

"You're Harry Potter," she states in an airy tone of voice.

I look at her in silence for some seconds, taking note of how her blue eyes seem to bulge slightly and of her radish earrings. "Someone has to be. And you're...?"

"Luna Lovegood."

"A pleasure." My smile comes easily. "There's something you want?"

"Oh, right. I wanted to ask if it's true that you have spent the last year in an assignment deep inside Gringotts to establish an interspecies fight club between the Office of Goblin Liaisons and their commander-in-chief."

I blink, astonished. Then I blink again.

"Are you serious?" I ask and she nods, looking mighty pleased with herself. "Erm, I don't think so? Last time I saw the goblins, they were trying to skin Sirius alive because he kept calling everyone here _Griphook_ , but no fight club, no."

"Really? Oh, dad will be sad," her mood seems to go down a few pegs, but abruptly changes as she beams at me. "It was nice to meet you anyway, Harry Potter, and tell me if you change your mind, okay?"

My muted nod is all the agreement she needs and she goes back to the Ravenclaw table. Fred and George then appear, sitting by my side, and I turn to them, still eyeballing her. "Guys, _guys_ , who're that girl? The little blonde sitting next to _whatshisface_ there in Ravenclaw."

"Who?" Fred stretches on his seat to look at her without a shame in the world. "Oh boy, the one who looks like she has bollocks hanging off her ears?"

What a nice mental image. "This one, yes."

George snickers. "I see you've had the pleasure of meeting Loony Lovegood."

" _Loony_?"

"Yeah, she's a friend of Ginny. Nice enough, but a few _Leviosas_ off from a Levitation Charm, if you catch my drift." Fred smiles and shakes his head. "Good for breaking the ice though."

"We should call her back then." George frowns. "Look who's coming."

There's no power in the Wizarding World capable of suppressing my groan as I look to where George's pointing. A pale, blonde kid with a pointed face is practically strutting in our direction, flanked by what appears to be an overgrown, shaved bonobo, and that begonia from Sirius' bedside.

"What you want?" I ask Malfoy before he can say anything.

"So rude, Potter," he answers in a nasal, too-much affected voice. "I was just wondering why you're not with your pet weasel and the beaver. Changed your payroll after these years hidden behind Dumbledore's robes, did you?"

The magic of Crabbe and Goyle is very similar, static and very faint around him, not reacting in the slightest. Malfoy's, though, flares at us like it's baring its fangs, the symbols embedded in it distorting like our very presence made his magic churn with disgust.

"Look, Malfoy, you-" my voice dies in my throat as George picks up a sugar bowl and holds it to Malfoy. His expression is inscrutable, even as the corner of Fred's mouth twitches. "George?"

"Weasley, what are you doing? If you want to sell this to me..."

"Can't you see it's sugar, little git?" Fred says, looking very serious. "You need it."

Malfoy narrows his eyes and Crabbe and Goyle flex their muscles. "Why?"

"Because you're _salty_ ," George answers brightly and I groan, putting my face between my hands.

"Cool, are we seasoning Malfoy now?" Lee says as he comes up to the table.

Malfoy's lips curl into a sneer. "If you think I-"

"Hello, Professor McGonagall!" Fred yells and then adds in a more subdued tone. "You better run along now, Malfoy. You don't want to get in trouble, do you?"

Malfoy takes notice of McGonagall coming down from the Staff Table, her hand full of papers and a steely glint in her eyes as she looks to us. Then, showing he has a surprising measure of common sense, he just glares venomously to me and motions for Crabbe and Goyle to follow him.

"That was nice," I say, smiling at the twins.

"It's like with mother." Fred waves me off. "You can't let her pick up steam."

"Is that so, Mr. Weasley?" McGonagall cuts in. "Your schedules, here and here."

"Professor McGonagall," I greet her as she turns her attention to me, the stern lines of her face relaxing somehow.

"Mr. Potter, it's good to have you back," she says and looks to my schedule. "I'll admit I'm surprised, though, Ancient Runes _and_ Arithmancy? I hadn't thought you would be interested in such classes."

Fred and George look at me like they were witnessing a brutal betrayal and Hermione, a few seats from us, seems to be paying close attention to our discussion.

"People change, I think."

"Seems to be the case." McGonagall then gives me the schedule. "Mind you, the Headmaster had to speak personally with professor Vector and Babbling for them to permit you to attend their classes. Therefore, I expect nothing less than _excellence_ from you in both of them, am I understood?"

"Crystal clear."

"One more thing," McGonagall says, shuffling her papers, "the Headmaster wants you to come by his office after the classes end." Her voice then lowers to a whisper. "The password is Mars Bars, don't you be late."

The first lesson is tonight, then. "Sure thing, that."

She gives me a brisk nod and busies herself by giving the schedules to the freshly-arrived girls. I take my time studying my schedule, noting how the first class would be Herbology just after breakfast. Could be worse.

Up in the Staff Table, Dumbledore arrives with extravagant, acid-yellow robes, and I catch his twinkling eyes for a second as he seats himself. My smile then turns mischievous as I look back at Professor McGonagall.

"Hey, Professor?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

My tone is ever-so pleasant. "Would you like a sherbet lemon?"

"What?" McGonagall's mouth widens with barely hidden horror as she fixes me with an incredulous stare, her composure forgotten for a moment as she eyes the Staff Table. "What in the world did Albus do to you?"

"Just a joke, Professor!" I say as Fred, George and the rest of the team looks at me with a mix of surprise and amusement.

McGonagall keeps looking at me in silence and I bit my lower lip to not laugh. It's an accepted fact that McGonagall rarely smiles, but as she shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose, I swear I can see the corners of her mouth twitching.

"A joke, indeed. I hope your newly-acquired sense of humor translates as ability in my classroom then, as I, for one, will be expecting great things from you." Professor McGonagall says, now looking proper and stern again as she gives me this thinly-disguised ultimatum. "And Mr. Potter?"

"Yes?"

"Jokes aside, it's nice to see you up and about around here again," McGonagall adds in an almost conspiratorial tone of voice. Her expression relaxes as, this time, she really gives me a hard-earned little smile. "Make our house proud, will you?"

"Thanks, Professor." I smile back at her. "I really intend to."

* * *

The only one in the greenhouse as I arrive at the Herbology Class with the Hufflepuffs is Professor Sprout, who is occupied by tending to a strange plant that's puffing purple smoke in the air. The rest of the class isn't far behind, though, as they began to fill the Greenhouse. I let out a sigh as Neville, Ron and Hermione pick a table from themselves.

"Excuse me," someone calls behind me. "Can we work with you?"

"Huh?" I turn to look at the person who called me and, to my surprise, the redheaded Hufflepuff I saw in the breakfast, now accompanied by a blonde girl with pigtails and a somewhat round face.

"You're without partners, aren't you?"

"Oh, of course." My mind fails to supply a name for her, so I extend a hand and do my best to not look like a jackass. "I'm Harry Potter, by the way."

The blonde girl giggle and the redhead fix me with a no-nonsense kind of stare.

"I don't think there is any person alive who doesn't know who you are." She then smiles and grabs my hand. "I am Susan Bones and this is Hannah Abbott."

"Pleased to meet you," Hannah adds and I greet her too.

"Bones, Bones," I repeat, the name being familiar. "Relative of Amelia Bones?"

"Yes, she's my auntie." Susan then raises an eyebrow. "You know her?"

"Eh, more or less. Met her when Sirius got to the ministry to be officially pardoned—Sirius Black, you know." I snort. "She's not someone I would mess with, that's for sure. Practically bit Sirius' head off after he revealed he's an Animagus."

Susan looks very pleased with my opinion of her aunt.

"I've read the news about Black, it was a complete madness in the Ministry," Hannah says, her voice lower and lighter than Susan's confident tones. Seeing my look of interest, she amends. "Mom works in the Committee of Experimental Charms, but told me everything was in an uproar with the Black debacle."

"I'll say." Susan laughs. "Auntie said the Minister was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, all hot and bothered."

"That's… not an image I want in my mind." I wrinkle my nose with disgust.

Professor Sprout claps to call for attention and, looking every bit like a proud brood mother, show us what we're going to be working with—an assortment of what looks like black, distended slugs with a bad case of necrotic acne.

"Bubotubers!" The Professor declares. "They aren't nice to look at, but extremely useful in acne treatments—if that girl Eloise Midgen had paid attention in my class, she wouldn't resort to cursing hers off, but nevermind. To make use of them, you need to collect the pus-"

"Pus?" I mutter under my breath. The Bubotubers squirm. _Pus_.

Susan and Hannah take notice and turn to me.

Hannah gives me a sly look. "Not a fan of Herbology, I reckon?"

"Bloody plants have no business having _pus_."

"Agreed-" Susan says and the corner of her mouth turns upwards, "but look at the bright side. You've got two strong, hard-working Hufflepuffs to protect you from the bad plants, you poor Gryffindor, you."

"Susan? You do know I haven't practiced Herbology in _two years_ , don't you?"

Her smile falters, but mine is bigger than ever.

"So," I say theatrically, eyeing Seamus' Bubotuber repeated attempts to invade his right nostril. "Ladies first?"

* * *

The Ancient Runes class is nowhere near as crowded as Herbology, so much that each student sat in their own table and worked individually. I drop my bag by the side of my desk and prop my head on my hand, waiting for Professor Babbling to arrive and begin the class.

The class is with the Slytherins, but I don't know any of them well enough to remember their names. Hermione is already here, sitting in the first chair by the Professor's desk, quill, and parchment close at hand.

"Hey," I call the black-skinned dude near me. "You know what's the Professor is beginning with?"

He looks at me with suspicion. "Why are you asking _me_? I'm a Slytherin, Potter."

Thank Merlin I can talk with snakes, yeah?

"Good for you. So?"

The guy keeps his silence for some seconds, exchanging a look with the girl near him before he turns back to me. "Professor Babbling said at the end of last year she would do some sort of test, so as to review what we've learned. Again, why are you asking me of all people?"

"You're the nearer one?" I raise my eyebrows. "So, you know my name, but-"

"Blaise Zabini," he says, but doesn't extend his hand to me.

I look expectantly to the girl next to him, but she appears to be ignoring the entire world as she organizes her notes and whatnot. Baby steps, then, but— _Merlin above and below_ , is that our Professor?

Professor Babbling looks, to be quite honest, young and _nice_. She has long, braided blonde hair and her face has a vague shadow of Slavic heritage, with bright, blue eyes that look sharp and clear. Her magic looks like snowflakes around her, the shapes crystal clear and expressing itself into complicated and elegant runic fractals.

"For those who were with us yesteryear, welcome back," then she fixes her stare on me, "and for those who are new, just welcome. Last year, we completed our overview of Old Futhark, so we will be beginning this term with a written test. Before the test, however, I would like to ask our new student some questions. Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"Can you tell me the importance of the study of Ancient Runes in the modern age?"

"Of course," I say promptly. "There's, first and foremost, the fact that Runes are symbols in which Magic can express itself, an alphabet of magic, more or less. But the most common use of Ancient Runes is, for a lack of better word, to turn magic permanent _, anchored_. To engrave a spell and make it sustain itself with the ambient magic, making it durable, especially if you want to do long-term Protective Enchantments."

"Exactly, Mr. Potter, take five points to Gryffindor," Professor Babbling says with a thin smile. "If one is to inscribe the runes relative to the idea of _flying_ in a rock and cast the appropriate enchantments to anchor it, the wizard could come back in a thousand years and the rock would still be in the air. Ms. Greengrass, can you tell me another use of Ancient Runes?"

"Spells," the black haired girl with alluring, violet eyes, answers at once. "Arithmancy and Ancient Runes are essential to the creation and improvement of spells, as one is a form of predicting the comportment of magic, and the other is how to form the spell, even the movements and the words."

Greengrass, huh? She was more right than she thought.

Sometimes, I forget most of the people can't see what I see. How magic turns and changes, how intent, will, the wand movements and even the words that form the spells are. How the runes in their core look and act.

"Well reasoned," Professor Babbling says. "Five points to Slytherin. Now, there," she makes a flick with her wand and the papers in her desk float to each one of us, "are your tests and you must complete them in forty minutes at maximum; there will be no talking. You shall begin."

I look down at the paper.

 _1\. Explain the reason for the differences between the types of Runic Alphabets and why each one of them is equally important. Elaborate your argument with a basis on how the runes came to be._

My smile almost split my face in two. Piece of cake.

* * *

Professor Vector has the same air about her as McGonagall, capable of silencing a class without even trying. Not that it takes all that much effort—the Ravenclaws are a rather quiet and attentive bunch, at least while dealing with academics.

"Last year, I presented the principles of Arithmancy in broad strokes. During this year, however, our work will be more specific." Professor Vector voice sounds calm and measured, as much as her magic is. There isn't any overt expression of power from her, instead, her magic presents itself in subtle tones of silver, close to her skin and unfolding into complicated patterns that simplified themselves constantly.

"Spell-creation; a subtle and most complicated art, and one which I expect my class to have at least some understanding at the end of this year. Can someone tell me what's the main conundrum in using Arithmancy to do just that?"

Surprising absolutely no one, Hermione's hand is right up.

"Miss Granger?"

"Arithmancy, being the study of numbers and their meaning in the tessiture of our world and magic, presents a fundamental paradox when utilized to create spells—mainly, the fact that cold logic and magic can't mix together perfectly," Hermione says without pausing to breath. "Therefore, a wizard or with must take the illogical into account, as intent and power of will play a great part about executing and creating magic."

Logical, but… lacking?

Not every spell can be translated into a bunch of numbers and equations, sometimes, you just need to have a feel for it. Completely disagreeable with rational behavior, obviously, but it's magic—it needs to be, well, _magical_. Professor Dumbledore always says to look at the caster as much as to what he's casting.

"Perfect explanation, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor," Professor Vector says and waves at the blackboard, white lines forming complicated operations here as if written by an invisible hand. "For today, I want you to find the principles why the number three, seven and forty are magically significant." She then turns to me, "Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"I have elaborated a quiz for you, so as to ascertain where you knowledge ranks in my subject," she says, walking briskly to my desk and putting the aforementioned quiz here. "You must answer the questions to the best of your abilities. It will take until the end of the class and your score will be given in the next one—not that it will excuse you for doing homework. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Professor."

* * *

The twins ambushed me after the class, wanting to ask for my opinion about the enchantments in a candy they're developing. Something called Stumbling Skittles—the spells on it having the little side-effect of making whoever ate the candy to do spontaneous pirouettes. Simple enough to fix.

My getaway from them brought me to the lake. The Giant Squid is stretching her tentacles lazily through the surface of the water, looking for all intent and purposes perfectly satisfied with herself. I throw her some bread crumbs and plop back in the grass, pausing to look at my watch as I savor the smell of the lake.

Seems I still have an hour until my lesson with Professor Dumbledore.

Arithmancy and Ancient Runes are unforgiving with homework, as both Professors Vector and Babbling decided that we needed to read a book each until the next class. I'm beginning to see that maybe, just _maybe_ , I have committed an error when I decided to take these classes.

And thinking about books, I probably should search for a book about the Triwizard Tournament. I absolutely refuse to ask Professor Dumbledore about it—how would I prove to him that my entrance in the Tournament is deserved if I need for him to hold my hand? No way. I have a sense of pride, after all.

"Gallopin' gorgons! Harry!"

I raise my head from the ground as I recognize Hagrid's voice. He's coming to my direction, his bulk very distinctive even at a distance, and his magic looking very peculiar.

It takes the form of a myriad of blue symbols written in his skin, looking like a living picture of a Celtic Warrior of old, which goes nicely with his overall visual—the moleskin coat and the wild, fierce, beard and hair.

"Hey, Hagrid," I say and wave at him.

"I've got a bone to pick with ye," he says as I get on a sitting position. "How comes ye didn' came to visit me yet?"

"Bloody hell, I am sorry, just had Arithmancy and Ancient Runes just today and still need to meet Professor Dumbledore later." I shake my head and gives him a self-deprecating smile. "What's about your class today?"

"Thrivin'," Hagrid says proudly, hooking his fingers in his belt, "took it slow and nicely this year, jus' today I began to show 'em the Skrewts."

" _Skrewts_?"

"Ye, Blast-Ended Skrewts, interestin' little buggers they are. Some of 'em go pickin' steam until they kinda blast from their back ends, like _bam_ ," he scratches his beard with a ginormous hand. "Still am trying to make sense of the bloodsuckers on some of 'em, meself, maybe they're the females?"

"They seem…" Completely horrible. " _Interesting_ alright, Hagrid."

"I'll show ye the buggers when you come for some tea-" he says, pausing as something neighs from the Forbidden Forest. "Rampagin' Hippogriffs, I forgot to feed the Thestrals! See ye around, Harry!"

Hagrid turns away with a wave and goes to the Forbidden Forest, whistling a tune I don't know. Good man, but these Skrewts sounds like nightmares incarnated—thank Merlin I didn't take Care of Magical Creatures.

Something then nudges my foot.

" _Speaker_!"

I look around to see if someone else is watching as a little, acid-green snake begins talking to me.

" _Hello_ ," I answer and wave my hand, casting a wandless _Quietus_ , " _you alright_?"

" _Oh you don't know the beginning of it,_ " the snake's tongue flicks out as she moves her head to left and right. " _That scaled Flobberworm, Amaris, is telling everyone around the forest I was lying about a Speaker being there_!"

" _Have we met before_?"

" _Of course! I'm Ananke_!"

" _Ananke, Ananke…_ " I run a hand through my hair, smiling at the little snake as it coils around my arm. " _Oh! That Ananke! Yeah, you're that hatchling I helped with that barn owl last year, aren't you? How's tricks?_ "

" _Everything's fine, I even began producing venom during the last moon._ " Ananke sounds very excited as she opens her maw and I can see a droplet of viscous liquid trailing down her fangs. " _Did'ya see this?_ Venom!"

" _Nice!_ " I give the snake a thumbs up. " _So, who're this Amaris_?"

" _Oh Speaker, she's just the worst! You see, there's this big python with_ such _a strong tail-wave, Vasuki, so Amaris and her bunch of vermin are saying to him I'm not killy enough for him! They're horrible! Worse yet, there's this time she caught a rabbit and…_ "

* * *

"Please enter, Harry," Dumbledore greets me.

Breathing heavily, I step inside his office, clutching a stitch at my side. "Sorry for being late sir. You see, I was talking with this snake, Ananke." I pause to take another breath. "She thinks her fangs aren't long enough to court this other snake, Vasuki, so she kinda had a breakdown and-"

"Did she, now?" Professor Dumbledore runs a hand through his beard, his eyes shining with mirth. "So tell me, just for curiosity's sake, what have you said to her then?"

"Well-" I give him a wry grin, "she calmed down after I said that it doesn't matter the size of the fangs, but the potency of her venom." I scratch my chin, thoughtfully. "It sounds better in Parseltongue though."

Dumbledore chuckles and beckons for me to come closer. "Your endeavors at counseling snakes aside, please come here. It's time for a final test before we can set ourselves into into a new course."

He picks up a cube from the drawer and puts it on the desk, the cube being ordinary by itself. I focus on it instantly, recognizing the multiple Protective Enchantments—wards—orbiting it, like the rings of Saturn, extending and spinning around the little cube.

"You shall take down all these enchantments in under thirty minutes, my boy," Professor Dumbledore says and get up from his chair, coming to stand by my side. "Do you need any time to prepare your Occlumency?"

"Just a minute," I say and take a deep breath. Occlumency, the art of organizing your mind enough to hide, certain information for outside intrusion, isn't a discipline to be taken lightly. I am certainly no master at it, despite the fact that Dumbledore himself has taught me.

It is, however, the foundation of my method of breaching these protections.

A ward is composed of three parts, but the one I focus on is the intent. The ward needs to know who you are, what you think, and what you want to let you pass; and these characteristics show into your magic. After that, it's simpler—there's a certain modulation of magic to serve as a key to change or disable the ward.

Every magic has a signature, and every ward has a key.

The trick is making it let you use the key.

"I am ready," I say and lean over the cube, identifying the first obstacle—a mere Attention Repelling Charm, modulated as to let only people who have no intention of trespassing it to go through.

How Occlumency helps with that? Well. When you employ the art, you are hiding your thoughts, personality and the raw composition of your mind from an invader, also known as a Legilimens.

The fun happens when you turn it against _yourself_.

Magic has a resonance with the caster, his intentions, his mind, and personality. If Professor Dumbledore has made this little ward in a way that only people whose magic shows no intention of trespassing can get through, the answer is very simple.

You turn Occlumency inwards and occlude your thoughts and personality from _your own mind_ , turning into the person allowed inside the ward. You make your magic resonate with what the ward wants, changing your own intent enough to trick your magic into being different.

To my eyes, every ward, every enchantment for protection, is an exposed lock, and I just need to gain access through it so I can craft the key. Taking _control_ and then taking it _down_.

My method is kind of like manufactured schizophrenia if you think about that.

I take another deep breath as I submerge myself into an Occlumency trance, turning it on myself. My mind becomes hazy—incomplete—but my intention is clear. Why would I _want_ to trespass this enchantment? What a _silly_ thought. I just want to study it, to appreciate this magic as the symbols dance around me.

I flick and swish my wand, modulating my magic as the key of the ward—the same symbols, same hues and shapes it's expecting.

The ward tastes my magic as it extends to me, searching through my power until it reaches my own personality. Funny, why should it impede my progress? Only a madman would _dare_ to interfere with the inner workings of such a _magnificent_ spell.

With a rustle of wind, the magic unfolds in the right way.

The ward has let me in.

Pressure builds up behind my eyes as I drop the Occlumency and, with a flash of blue, I dispel the ward. The only way to deceive the magic is to deceive yourself, and it comes with the cost of migraines and pain. Bright spots that have nothing to do with my Sight dance in my field of vision.

"Excellent, my boy," Dumbledore says over my shoulder as sweat trails down my face. "Under five minutes, even? Simply amazing. How are you feeling, now?"

"I am fine," I say, shaking my read to dispel the dizziness. I go back into work, the other wards are as simple as the first one. There's one booby-trapped, ready to go off if whoever wants to pass has the intention of picking up the cube, and one that only lets you pass if you have no aggressive intentions. Easy enough.

Until the last one.

"Professor," I call him, scrunching my eyes shut for a second or two, then looking back to the ward. "This one… I can't change it, no matter what I try. I can deceive it into letting me pass, but.. there's something lacking. A kind of magic I don't understand…"

"What can you tell me about it then, Harry?"

"It's weird," I answer, looking at the ward again. "I can see what you need for me to pass through, a desire to find the cube, but to make the key and change it, it demands something more. Something I don't have."

"Something you don't have, indeed," says Professor Dumbledore with a knowing glint in his eyes. "You have been using the concept of modulating your intentions, then applying your own special gift to unlock and change the wards; yet, you can only modulate your magic in what you already have. You can't become, let's say, a Quintaped, because it's a physical change. Aren't you, therefore, forgetting a quintessential piece?"

I look at him in silence.

"Anchoring." It suddenly clicks. "You anchored this ward in something that demands _more_ of me."

"Exactly, Harry. To make a ward permanent, you need to anchor it—not for these pesky protective enchantments I used earlier on the cube, but a real, solid ward. Like those of Hogwarts." Dumbledore then waves his wand and the ward uncoils before me like a clockwork, four runes I don't understand at each meridian. "Can you see what anchors this one?"

"I… I never encountered these exactly runes before, sir."

"Not even once?"

I ransack my mind, trying to remember. One of the runes glows with a green sheen to it, the tendrils of magic connected to it shifting restlessly as if trying to mislead an intruder; a discrete magic, full of subterfuge. Like...

" _Slytherin_ ," I say and my eyes widen with amazement. "The Chamber of Secrets?"

"The Chamber of Secrets. These runes, Harry, are connected to Hogwarts—to the founders magic, anchored in this castle as the very stones of it are," Dumbledore says with a bright smile. "Don't you see? Runes come into being when one makes an impression in the world's magic. When there's a physical effect of one's actions in the very essence of magic-"

"Like creating a school that kept soaking in ambient magic for millennia."

"Perfect, my boy. You can't change this magic, because as much as you occlude, you haven't the _authority_ to do so—nor do you have the power to supplant the entire Hogwarts by yourself, even prodigious as you are," Dumbledore explains, dispelling the ward with a wave of his wand. "Magic is a fickle, demanding mistress, who delights at our attempts to understand it. Intent matters, yes, but it's not everything."

My smile fades as I look at him, eyebrows raised. "So, that's why did you show me this ward? To demonstrate that there are things I still need to understand?"

"More specifically, for you to learn that no matters how developed your methods are, nothing is foolproof, especially when talking about magic. A good lesson for life, if I can say so myself."

I can't help but smile as he says that—learning from Dumbledore is as much about divining his intentions as it is to find the solutions for the problems he proposes. More important than the finish line, it is about the journey to reach there.

He picks an old tome from behind his desk, shuffling the pages until reach the topic of Ward Anchoring, and explains to me more about the principles he has just outlined. I almost don't feel the time passing, until the grandfather clock chimes.

"Oh my, I think it's time to cut our lesson short." He closes the book with a snap. "Sadly, there is no time left for us to delve into your memories with the Pensieve, fascinating as your Sight is; shall we do it again in, say, two days time?"

Seeing my nod, he continues with a tired sigh. "I'm truly sorry, my boy, but the foreigners want for a detailed explanation about the protections I'll bestow on the Goblet of Fire, and it's not polite to be late."

I try my best to mask the interest behind my question. "Goblet of Fire?"

"An ancient artifact, full of mysteries, but now mainly used to pick up the Champions from each school," Dumbledore explains with a small smile. "It seems that, even in the old times, no Wizard confided enough in human nature to be fully impartial about the competition. Tell us something dreadful about us as a species, doesn't it?"

"Sure it does." My laugh comes weak as my mind is already running with possibilities and methods to infract into this Goblet of Fire. "So, this Goblet-"

"Never you mind. Here-" Dumbledore pauses to give me a slip of parchment, "are some books I want you to read before our next lessons—if you can pardon me for compounding into your growing list of homework assignments."

I take a look at the list. _Fundamentals About Pragmatism_ , from one S. Vimes, and _How Far Should You Go For Life and Limb_ , from a dude called Cohen. Dueling practice will begin shortly, it seems.

"These books—these are in the library?"

"Of course they are, my boy, even if they dwell into the Restricted Section. You have nothing to fear, though, as I've had a word with Madam Pince already," he gives me a conspiratorial wink, then glances again to his clock. "There's anything more you want?"

 _The Restricted Section_. Maybe there's something about that Goblet here…

"No sir, I'm alright."

"Excellent, then you're free to go. But before you leave-"

Professor Dumbledore then picks the cube from his desk and opens it. I crane my neck to see whatever is inside, but the action is unneeded—he offers it to me, theatrically. His amusement making his eyes twinkle as a smile appears on his face.

"Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"

* * *

I stop for a second to watch as Hedwig soars in the morning sky with my letter to Sirius tied to her leg. I rub my eyes as she becomes a little dot in the horizon, muffling a yawn with the back of my hand. Maybe I should have a lie-in before Moody's lesson. Just as I exit the Owlery, though, I slam onto someone.

"Oh, sorry—"

My voice dies in my throat as I recognize who it is.

"Harry," Hermione says, recovering awfully quickly from the collision.

We stand into an uncomfortable silence before Ron comes running behind her, muttering something about crazy people just taking off on the middle of the Great Hall. He stops dead at the sight of me.

"Oh," he says. "Hello, mate."

"Ron," I say, eyeing the two of them. "Well, that was nice and—"

"Honestly!" Hermione's voice brokers no disagreement, her cheeks looking distinctly flushed as she looks at me with a gleam in her eyes. "Harry, Ron, we need to talk, and we need to talk _now_."

It's an endorsement to the seriousness of her tone that neither I or Ron objected to the lack of breakfast. The small talk came rather unnaturally and clunky between us as Hermione tied a letter in a school owl's leg, a big, mean-looking bird, and send it.

It doesn't get better as we make the way to an almost unoccupied classroom. Hermione almost negligently freezes the suit of armor that's tap-dancing there with a clever Charm, then she turns to me.

"So," Hermione says imperiously and crosses her arms. "I know you've been avoiding us, Harry—no, I don't want to hear any excuses. What I want to know is _why_?"

"Why?" I splutter. "Hermione, we barely exchanged letters from the first year onward. Hell, the last time we met, you just had been petrified and Ron—"

"Yeah, that." Ron's ears are getting alarmingly red. "I never said I was sorry about the thing in the Hospital Wing, did I?"

I scoff. "Why would you? I was in the wrong there."

"Wait." Hermione looks at us with a raised eyebrow. " _That's_ the reason? A silly fight while both of you had your tempers running high? I can't believe it! You two," she round on us, and I feel no shame in taking a step back at her intensity. "You two will talk it out. And we're not getting out until you do."

The glare she sent us was enough to show she wouldn't be denied.

"Well." I look at Ron. "You first?"

"What? No!" Ron looks frankly horrified. "Are you mad?"

"Probably, yes," I sigh, taking a second to reconvene my thoughts as I take a deep breath. Then I begin. "It's like… Ron. Hermione. You were my first friends, my best friends, but… I don't know. After the trapdoor, nothing was the same, was it? I got off the school, and you two still were there, then Professor Dumbledore started teaching me and—I mean, it just escalated too quickly."

Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose. "To be fair, I can't say we are free of blame. But Harry, just try to see this from our point of view. Our best friend had just been taken off Hogwarts for something he couldn't even tell us, then he begins talking about magic and a _pub_ of all things! The letters were growing more and more scarce… until the Chamber of Secrets."

I wince. "I am sorry for that, by the way."

"That's not the problem, Harry," Hermione waves my apology off. "The point is, we wanted to learn about you. To talk to you. Not with Dumbledore's apprentice or any rubbish like that, but _you,_ Harry Potter. Our friend."

My throat feels dry. Before I can answer, though, Ron takes the lead.

"Also, you haven't to-" he says, his eyes fixed at a point just above my shoulder. "To be sorry about our discussion, I mean. I shouldn't have had shoved you and yelled at you that night. It's just… mate, Hermione was _there_ , lying petrified, then you come in and act like—"

"Like I had any right to be here."

"That's… yeah. That's what I thought that day, yes." Ron fidgets as he looks at me, the redness of the tips of his ears reaching nuclear levels. "So—Merlin bollocks." He gesticulates furiously. "Look. I am rubbish at this kind of talks, but I was _wrong_."

"So was I," I say, feeling emboldened by his words. "I understand you. I know I should have been more present, insisted more with our friendship, and for that, I am sorry, Ron." I then turn to Hermione. "And I am even more sorry for not doing more to help you, too."

"I'll repeat, Harry, it wasn't your fault." Hermione huffs, but there's an unmistakable fondness on her expression now. "You haven't changed a bit, did you? Always trying to shoulder the blame for everyone."

"I'll have you know I've changed. Look! I don't wear glasses anymore," I say, affecting an offended look, then smile at Ron. "We're good, then? No hard feelings?"

"I reckon so."

We share a look and, just as the absurdity of the situation settles in, all three of us break into laughter. I keep guffawing, leaning on Ron's shoulder, for almost a minute until the need of breath makes itself know.

Hermione then gives me a smile that doesn't quite reach for her eyes.

"Things will not be the same, will they?"

The truth of her statement manages to wipe every bit of humor from my face. "I don't think so, to be honest." I give her a small smile. "But I reckon that doesn't mean we can't do something new."

"Yes." Hermione's eyes look suspiciously moist. "I can work with that."

Ron, who apparently had enough of that talk, gives a big grin. "I mean, it's not like we haven't anything in common anymore, is it? We still hate Malfoy and Snape, yeah?" He then pauses, as if having a sudden brainwave. "Mate, you didn't begin liking Malfoy or anything like that, do you?"

"Whoa." I raise my hands in surrender. "No. Still hating the little git, here."

"Excellent." Ron nods, looking every bit as I had just reassured him the sky wasn't turned purple. "See, Hermione? Even with crazy eyes and all that rubbish, it's still Harry. I'm good with that."

Hermione just gives us a look of incredulity.

"Boys—" she says and, pausing for a second, she suddenly takes off and slams on Ron and me, pulling us into a bone-crushing hug. Neither I nor Ron comment on the fact that we can feel her shaking.

When she finally let us go, her eyes are red-rimmed and there are vestiges of tears running down her face. Politely, I pick up my wand and flick it in the air, making a handkerchief appear that I then hand to her.

It shows how much she's being emotional that even my show of magic didn't attract a thousand, rapid-fire questions. She just accepts the handkerchief with a thank you.

"I think we should get going," Hermione finally says, still sniffing, but clearly sensing the discomfort that every hot-blooded male feels at the sight of a woman crying. "We'll be late to Professor Moody's class."

"Now you say that! I didn't even have breakfast," Ron whines.

"Hey, maybe we can go to the kitchens?" I suggest as we get out from the classroom. "We can pick a snack or two there. I mean, the House-Elves do—"

"House-Elves!" Hermione snarls and rounds on me. Her eyes are full of an unholy light and, for the second time today, she makes me take a step back from her. "You know about the House-Elves! And where the kitchen is!" Hermione then shoves me ahead of them. "That's it, you're going to show us, _now_! And on the way, we can talk about this idea I've been formulating. It's called S.P.E.W., and—"

As she rants, I look over my shoulder and my eyes met Ron's for a second. He's making a circular movement with his finger around his ear and mouthing mad without a sound. For a second, just for a second, that old spark from the first year is back between us.

Just for that bittersweet second, it's like I never had gone away from Hogwarts.

* * *

The next month after that blurs together in my mind. All the lessons with Dumbledore, the other Professors and my research about the Triwizard Tournament took all the free time I had, to the point I was practically camped into the library. Even the time Moody showed us the Unforgivable Curses, with the cold, finality of the Killing Curse still-

"Potter, are you paying attention?" Snape's voice brings me back to my senses.

I blink. "Yes."

"Then, by all means, dazzle us with your knowledge; what are the ingredients of the Wit-Sharpening Potion?"

"There's ginger root, armadillo bile and…" the name of the last component escapes my mind, and Snape's look of contempt at me doubles in intensity. "I don't remember, sir."

"Five points from Gryffindor for the lacking answer, Potter," he says. "For all of you who _have_ paid attention at your homework, the last ingredient is ground scarab beetles. Now, Mr. Nott, can you tell me a common misconception about this potion?"

Nott, a gangly, pale guy who reminds me of a scarecrow, answers. "Most of the wizards think it'll make them smarter."

"Correct, take five points for Slytherin for that. The ordinary wizard thinks that, as the name of the potion seems to allude, it'll make them smarter. It does _not_. All the potion can do is to give a clearer, sharper focus of mind, for those who are under its effects," Snape then raises an eyebrow. "Otherwise, I would make it obligatory for some in this class to take it."

The pointed look he's giving to Neville escapes no one's notice.

Snape then waves to his blackboard. "The instructions, there. You can begin."

The rest of the lesson dissolves into a myriad of strange fumes and smells. It's hard for me to keep my concentration—I see how the ingredients' magic mingle and change the potion as a whole, all these little things happening in the blink of an eye.

Snape's look at my potion, as the class finishes, assures me he isn't impressed.

Putting his reaction in the back of my mind, I get up to freshen myself for the arrival of the foreign schools. As I pick up my clothes from the trunk, my new alarm clock, which takes the form of an Animated knight I Animated myself, yells a challenge while brandishing his blunt sword.

Cute.

Some minutes after that, I catch up with the Weasley twins and Lee as we go outside the Great Hall, who are talking in hushed tones about their plans to enter the tournament. McGonagall is near, but otherwise occupied by marshaling the students into the closest Hogwarts' pupils can reach to a semblance of order.

The air is cool outside, the smell of grass pleasantly to me as we march to a point near the lake. Seeing as every student was out there, it was very crowded, but even the close contact between this many people can't ward off the coldness of the night.

I turn to Fred, my own breath condensing as I ask. "An aging potion?"

"Yeah," Fred says with a smile. "We're already brewing it."

"Better you than me." I shake my head. "Snape isn't happy with me in the class."

"Just in the class?" George laughs. "He can't be happy, period. Almost cursed Fred's arse today."

"That's the reason?" Lee laughs. "Didn't you and Fred drop a pack of Dungbombs inside the dungeons and then charmed it to look like little versions of Snape that tried to spit oil at the passersby?"

"Lies, I assure you," George says, shaking his head. "Filthy, greasy lies."

"Changing the subject," Fred turns to me. "You're not looking all that good."

I run my hand over my face, knowing exactly how tired I look. Even in comparison to my usual paleness, I have reached new heights during my sort-of obsession with the Triwizard Tournament and the demanding dueling practice Professor Dumbledore was subjecting me to. "Pulled some all-nighters or two in the library, the Professors aren't taking it easy with us."

"All-nighters, you say?" Fred raises his eyebrow. "I think there's something you aren't telling us, old boy. Maybe he's trying to run a little side-plot about the Tournament, huh, George?"

"You do have a point here," George narrow his eyes.

My smile is fake as it comes. "I have no clue of what are you talking about."

"No clue, of course," Katie says as she elbows her way to our side. It doesn't escape from my eyes, though, how much she's shivering, so I surreptitiously cast a non-verbal Warming Charm around us. A tweak from my own making is implemented in the Charm to expand the area of effect, for which she gives me a thankful look.

"Hush it, you." I put my arm around her shoulders, now with a real smile in my face, and decide that's it time for a distraction. As I catch the sight of a familiar red-haired Hufflepuff coming by, it looks like the perfect opportunity. "Hey, Susan! Susan! Here!"

"Hello, Harry." Susan rubs her arms as comes near us, relaxing more and more as she comes inside the Warming Charm's radius. "I was searching for Hannah, but it's so _cold_. Excited about the Tournament?"

"A bit, yes," I say and poke Katie's side as she scoffs. "Say, Sue, d'you know how the foreigners are arriving?"

Susan shakes her head, inching closer to me. "Auntie wouldn't tell me, all I got is something about the French wanting licenses for some creatures they're bringing."

"The French, you say?" Fred turns to George, who groans.

"There's some story here?" I ask him.

"Oh yeah. Our pal Georgie here was writing to some French chick during… a year or so?" Fred says in a too-satisfied tone. "Sadly, that marvelous and clearly undying relationship sunk because she thought his pranks were _juvenile and moronic_."

"Yeah, sent me a letter charmed to spit slugs, to see how I liked that."

"Hey," Katie calls as Susan giggles. "There's something up here."

We turn to look and, true as she said, there's something up in the clouds. An enormous shape, approaching the school with vertiginous speed. I make a double take as it turns to be a carriage pulled by enormous, brutish-looking horses, that slams heavily on the ground. Flecks of mud stain its otherwise immaculate coat of paint, some of it reaching the symbol of two wands crossed with stars coming off them in the door, and the giant horses neigh imperiously, steam coming from their flared nostrils and their red eyes shining in the night.

"Well," George says as one boy jumps off the carriage and pulls out some sort of collapsible, little ladder. "Those just need to suck blood and I think we'll lose Hagrid."

"Don't be daft." Fred's lips split into a smile. "They can't beat the Skrewts and-"

I almost choke with my own spit, trying to not laugh, as a woman steps down the carriage. She's gigantic, at least of Hagrid's size, and Dumbledore doesn't need to double down to kiss her knuckles. There are symbols of magic written all over her skin in a manner uncannily similar to Hagrid's—probably some common heritage.

Fred raises his eyebrow as the woman presents herself ad Madam Maxime. "Huh. It was nice to meet him?"

George's voice is barely a whisper. "If you ask me, it's not blood he'll want this Madam Maxime to suck-"

"George!" Katie says as Susan looks scandalized.

"Would you look at this, Hogwarts' almost losing me too," George says, waving in the direction of the French students as they follow their headmistress on the grounds, all of them wearing shawls and light clothing. One of the girls, a blonde, blue-eyed beauty, has something about her that demands attention—an aura of sorts, her magic reaching for us without conscious input.

I pull Katie closer to me. "I like Hogwarts' better."

Katie doesn't say anything in answer, but her smile widens and she snuggles deeper on my chest.

"How do you think Durmstrang will be coming?" Susan then asks, putting a finger under her lower lip. "They didn't fill anything about creatures, so it'll be probably-"

"The lake!" Lee points out.

"Don't be stupid, they can't bring an entire lake," Katie says, rolling her eyes.

"No, he's right!" Susan interjects. "Look at the lake."

Just as I turn to look, the water churns and a mast emerges from the dark recesses of the lake, followed by the rest of a gigantic, decrepit ship, which makes me think of the legend of Flying Dutchman. It doesn't take much time for the entire ship emerge and anchor itself at the coast, a plank extending to the grass as the ship sways gently with the waters.

From the ship, comes a bunch of solid-bodied, serious-looking students. They are led by an unctuous man, clad in rich robes of fine silk and with a little beard, his appearance all but screaming slyness. His magic just adds to that idea, tendrils of light shuffling and disappearing around him, masking his reactions—but there's no disguise capable of hiding the foul magic entrenched in his arm.

Even this Karkaroff's voice sounds greasy and well-practiced as he greets Dumbledore as an old friend. The Headmaster is perfectly polite, but there's no mistaking about the tightness around his eyes; he knows as good as I do, maybe better, that the foreigner is not to be trusted.

"Hey!" Lee calls to us. "Is this one who I think he is?"

Fred tiptoes to look over the other students. "Merlin's balls, it's Krum!"

The reaction his words receive is instant as Katie and Susan begin giggling and start casting glances at him. I, myself, don't feel all that impressed at the sight of him. That fellow must be famous because, from where I am looking, he looks a bit like a sulking duckling, fresh from waddling to the shore.

"Who?" I ask Fred, still looking at the girls as if they are diseased.

"The youngest seeker alive! We saw him playing in the World Cup!"

"He's like your version in the professional circuit, Harry," George adds.

"What a dude." I begin pulling my arm from around Katie. "I don't like him."

"Stop it you." Katie slaps my hand and pulls my arm back to the previous position with a vice-like grip. "You're still our beloved resident celebrity, Harry, there's no need to feel threatened by that bad, menacing Krum. It's just news to us, y'know."

Susan manages to control herself enough to add. "She's right, you even look better than him."

I still look at them with narrowed eyes as the twins and Lee laughs. As we follow McGonagall back into the Great Hall and I dispel the warming charm, though, I can't help with the smile spreading in my face as the girls come close to me. Say what you want, but it's nice to have your ego stroked by a pair of beautiful women.

Gods, I _am_ turning into Sirius.

"Time to go to my table," Susan says with a wave. "See you later, Harry!"

"See ya," I say as I find my seat at the table.

"So, Susan Bones," Fred says as he sits by my side. "Branching out now, are we?"

"Never mind that," I answer and watch as the foreigners get up to their tables—Beauxbatons in Ravenclaw and Durmstrang in Slytherin. The headmasters take seats at the Staff Table, talking politely with Dumbledore, but there still are two empty chairs there. "Do you know who else will be coming?"

"Ministry people, probably," Fred shrugs. "Maybe that tool Bagman and Crouch?"

George makes an expression of distaste. "Seems like it, I would love for Bagman to appear."

"Wait, _Crouch_?" I narrow my eyes. "That _arse_? Sirius hates the man."

Katie is startled by my vehemence. "Really?"

"Yeah, he's the piece of shite who put Sirius in Azkaban without trial." My jaw is now clenched strongly enough that it hurts. "Personally, I can only hope he's there so I can shove a curse or two up his-"

"I think we got that," Katie says. "Look, here's the food."

As always, the food just appears before us, but strangely, now there are unfamiliar courses peppered here and there. An appeal to the foreigners, if I understand it right. Still, as I pile the food in my plate, I try to err on the safe side and not eat anything that can possibly have snails in it.

The second course of meals is more of the same, but now with desserts.

"Hey, look there," George calls us. "Ronniekins seems to be near apoplexy."

I turn to the direction Ron is and, true as George said, he looks very embarrassed. The tips of his ears are of a startling, almost apocalyptic red, as he offers something to one of the foreigners. I narrow my eyes as I recognize her as that blonde girl, and her magic looks like it's entrancing Ron's own.

" _Excusez moi?_ "

"Yeah?" I answer as a beautiful, french witch comes up to us. Her hair is black as the night and is held up in an elaborate, complicated bun, while her eyes look almost grey in their paleness, hidden behind thinly-framed, elegant glasses.

"I wanted to ask if-" she pauses mid-sentence, her gaze flickering to my forehead. "C _'est_ incroyable _!_ Are you _Le Survivant_?"

" _Who_? No, I'm Harry Potter," I answer, bewildered, as Alicia muffles a giggle near me.

"It's the name the French have for you, Harry," Alicia says.

"Oh, sure." I smile at the French girl, who's still looking at me with wide eyes. "El Survivante, that's me alright. There's anything you want?"

She blinks a time or two and seems to regain her composure, even if her cheeks still have a faint dusting of pink. " _Mon Dieu_! I just wanted to ask if you 'ave finished the _confit de canard._ "

I look again at Alicia and she points to a plate near us, one I haven't touched.

"Yeah, you can take it," I pick up the plate and give it to her.

" _Merci beaucoup._ I'm Amélie, by the way," she says and George looks like he has just been stabbed, his mouth open and eyes unblinking as she goes away, muttering. "Wait until I tell Fleur I just talked with _Le Survivant_!"

I poke George as he makes a funny noise. "George? You alright here?"

Fred looks like he's near a fit of hysterical laughter. "Remember the French girl he wrote to?"

"I think it's her." George's voice sounds strangled. " _Bollocks_."

"Small world," I mutter to myself, watching as Amélie goes back to the Ravenclaw's table and points to me, talking in hushed tones. The blonde girl gives me a sharp, analyzing glance for a second or two, her magic looking turbulent. " _Heh_. Eat your heart out, Krum."

Katie pokes my side. "Not petty in the slightest, are you?"

My retort, though, dies in my throat as Dumbledore gets up and the Hall goes silent. His bright robes flutter around him with an unseen breeze as the candlelight dims, giving the idea of an ancient, wise sorcerer of old.

"The moment to begin the Triwizard Tournament has come," Dumbledore says, smiling at us. "Before we can start, though, I would like to say a few words of explanation, just to clarify the procedure we will be following this year. First, though, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Pius Thicknesse, Head of the Department of the Department of International Magical Cooperation-"

Looks like the turmoil behind Sirius' innocence has blown Crouch away, then. My smile is almost feral in nature. Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. This Thicknesse, though, is thin and has a wispy look to his features; even if impeccably dressed, he doesn't exude all that much strength of character as he gives us a thin smile.

"-and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

More people cheer, now. This Mr. Bagman must've had made himself very popular and is Thicknesse's contrast, as he looks jovial and smiles broadly at us, using a faded Quidditch uniform and greedily drinking the applause.

"Mr. Thicknesse and Mr. Bagman have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements from the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore continues, "and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime on the panel which will judge the champions' efforts."

Tension begins building inside me at these words. _Champions_. All the plans I've made, all I've learned about this Tournament and the Goblet of Fire—scarce information as it was—are finally coming to a climactic high.

"The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."

Filch, grumbling under his breath, approaches Dumbledore carrying a great, wooden chest. The chest is encrusted with jewels and it's magic, old as it looks, is still vibrant as if dotted by little flames of different colors.

The students are holding their breath as one.

"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined at length by the involved," Dumbledore explains, "and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school years, and they will test the champions in different ways. Their magical prowess—their daring—their powers of deduction—and, of course, their ability to cope with danger."

I can feel my lips splitting into a smile, reflecting my feelings. Their _magical prowess_ , their _daring_? Ability to _cope with danger_? These words are an allure in itself, appealing to me. It's the perfect opportunity to show how worthy of being his apprentice I am. For me to rise above them, show my mettle.

"As you know, three champions compete in the Tournament," Dumbledore goes on calmly, "one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector ... the Goblet of Fire."

Dumbledore closes the casket and puts the Goblet on top of it. The Goblet, for all its casket looked finely crafted, is crude—a chalice of wood, carved archaic runes, but full of incredible magic.

As the goblet overflows with fire, so it does with power. Ancient sigils in a tongue I do not know fluttering through his lid, the energy seemingly drinking on the world around it and dissecting it in their quintessential parts. A judge, through and through, who couldn't be assailed or shanghaied into the exercise of its function.

 _Do you dare to prove your might, Harry?_

Dumbledore looks grave as he surveys us. "Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment, and drop it into the Goblet," he says. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the Goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The Goblet will be placed in the Entrance Hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.

"To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation," said Dumbledore, "I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the Entrance Hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line."

For the second time that night, my world seems to stop. I've read about Age Lines—wards tailored to only accept people from a predetermined age through. Advanced and hard to drawn, I have no doubt about the fact that it will talk all of me to even think about breaking them.

 _Do you dare to step into the grounds of legend?_

That's the mettle I'll have to surpass, the first obstacle in my way.

"Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this Tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the Tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the Goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play, before you drop your name into the Goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Goodnight to you all."

His eyes catch mine for a split-second as everyone gets up, chattering endlessly about what they've just learned. I avert my eyes from his and finger my cloak, hidden in my pocket, as I begin to trace the plan of action to take tonight.

"Harry." Katie tugs my sleeve, looking worried. "It's time to go. Come."

My body follows her almost on its own, my mind far elsewhere as the Goblet of Fire belches flames endlessly; the blue light of those being less eye-catching to me than its magic. That judgmental magic, which seemed to expect greatness and suffered no weaknesses.

That alluring, maddening call for the worthy, for the strong.

 _Do you dare, Harry, to reach for greatness?_

My smile is all teeth.


	4. Chapter IV

**Disclaimer** : I own nothing.  
This story is better viewed in the 3/4 format.

 **Breaking the Law  
**

* * *

My cloak feels as if it's made of water against my skin.

The magic of the Cloak of Invisibility is all-encompassing— _nothing_ escapes from inside it. The numerous runes and symbols of its make drink greedily the magic from the owner, in such a way that not even the faintest, dullest mote of light, extend from beyond its confines.

The Common Room is sparsely populated as I stride towards the Fat Lady's portrait. Fred and George are talking in hushed tones in a corner next to the fireplace, with multiple ingredients exchanging hands and twin shifty looks on their faces. Two third-years I don't know are playing Wizarding Chess on one of the tables and Ron is coaching one of them, while their adversary just looks disgruntled.

"Who's there?" The Fat Lady asks as the portrait swings open and I ignore her. The Marauder's Map is in my hands, the lines of ink interlacing with the ethereal glow of the many different enchantments embedded in the parchment, and the Quietus spell in my shoes muffles every footstep of mine.

The only companion I have as I stalk towards the Great Hall is the sound of my our heart beating fast, the adrenaline making me take notice of every dark cranny and nook of the corridors until I reach my destination.

I make a double take at the sight of the Goblet of Fire, still overflowing with blue flames and sitting upon its casket. The shadows its casting seems to dance on the walls, only increasing the eerie feeling of the deserted Hall.

The Age Line around it is like an impenetrable wall—old magic brought upon the world and chained by runes with a purpose, a barrier looking solid as the very Goblet. There's a glimmer of many different enchantments and protections mixing within the Age Line as I extend my hand from inside the Cloak of Invisibility, trying to get through it.

The dome of magic ripples, but feels solid as steel.

Well, my first plan has just gone through the window, then.

It seems that the Age Line wants—no, it _needs_ to know who is passing through. It can't recognize me from inside the Cloak, ergo, it doesn't lift to allow for my passage. Time to change the approach.

I close my eyes and the familiar cold, pernicious sense of Occlumency envelops my mind. I submerge every sense and memory I have about my age in the dark recesses of my mind. The very concept of age, of being old enough, is being eaten by the Occlumency as my mind goes momentarily blank and it _hurts_.

I let Occlumency clamp their jaws in my mind and almost fall to the ground.

As I stumble into my feet and narrow my eyes to focus through the dizziness, the… the… _why can't I remember_? The — Line; the ward, it's still raised before me. Even if I have no clue about what I have just been doing and about what half of the ward means, I still feel a desire to get through it.

My fingers tremble as I try to touch the dome of light.

Then I am flung into the air as if Hagrid has just punched me in the gut.

Rolling on the ground, the best thing I can do is to hide inside my cloak and try to make sense of myself again. My grasp on the Occlumency erodes to dust and it takes every ounce of my self-control to not scream as everything comes flooding back into my mind.

"Who goes there?" I heard Filch yelling as he ambles inside the Great Hall, and I can feel the coppery taste of blood in my mouth as I bit my lower lip to not make a noise. I crouch down, mastering my dizziness, and let the tip of my wand peek from under my Cloak.

" _Confundo_."

Filch eyes go out of focus for a second or two, my magic looking like fingers penetrating and then shaking his cranium, confounding him. When he blinks, he comes back at his sense with a roar.

"Peeves! I will have your hide for that!" He bellows and stalks away from the Great Hall, his steps faltering as he zig-zags out of sight. "Blasted Poltergeist! Oh, I'll have your hide-"

I let out a relieved breath.

I come near the Goblet carefully and sit before it, cross-legged, my mind going through all my knowledge to try to make sense of the Age Line. Looking at it, there's a physical component I can't fake—my body's age and a mental component.

Squinting, I peer deeper inside the ward. Maybe I could change it?

As if answering my thoughts, four runes catch my sight. Crap. Dumbledore has anchored this ward with the Founder Runes.

So, if I can't get through, and I can't change the ward, the only way is…

Wand in hand, I begin to trace runes before me, the shapes and forms holding up on the empty air as if written by an unseen hand, the red and gold flames flickering on the darkness. First, there's _Lagusz_ , the rune of water, as the beginning of an _aett_ centered in the idea of giving passage, of a safe way. I balance it with arrays centered on balance, _Raidho_ , and penetration, _Perthro_...

Sweat trails down my neck as I craft the ward, intending to try and interfere with the Age Line—disturb it enough to allow me to pass, protecting me from its magic. Every line that comes from my wand is measured and perfectly straight, the symbols chaining themselves together before me.

I take a step back, looking proudly at the result.

Then, holding my wand by the tip, I slam it on the ground and the crack of stone heralds the completion of the ward. My enchantment tries to drive itself between the pieces of the Age Line, stretching its essence and infecting it like a cancerous growth.

For a second, I dare to think it will work.

Then the Age Line flares brightly and turns the table, overpowering and devouring my ward. My own magic withers and disperse, adding to the power of it the Goblet's protection. The backlash almost makes me stumble back, and I lean on a wall to center myself again. As if prompted by my failure, Dumbledore's words come back to my mind.

 _You can't change this magic, because as much as you occlude, you don't have the authority to do so—nor do you have the power to supplant the entire Hogwarts by yourself._

I feel foolish. As the Age Line is anchored with the Founder Runes and has all the might of Hogwarts behind it, it's no surprise that my own ward couldn't supplant it by itself. It's like trying to hold the ocean with a piece of parchment, blatantly impossible. _Pathetic, Potter_.

I rub my temples. I need to think, to plan.

Getting up, I leave the Great Hall in the direction of a vacant classroom. The creaking of the door seems to echo, magnified by the silence, and my breathing only calms down after I lock the door with a _Colloportus_ and fire every Privacy Charm I know.

I get out from the inside of the cloak and bring my wand in the direction of a battered, notched chair behind the Professor's table. The silent _Reparo_ I cast makes the chair shudder as it meets the concept of becoming _perfect_ , whole again. The scratches born from many students smooth out and, with a flick of my wand, a comfortable stuffing appears on the seat, as if a green, shiny liquid is pouring through the wood.

I sit down and rest my face on my hands, trying to make sense, to formulate a way to enter. There's no way I can change that ward, no way I can convince the ward to let me pass by simple Occluding my mind, and it would take more than an army to supplant the might of Hogwarts' magic. What I need is authority.

The hours pass by, a multitude of books I filched from the Restricted Section are strewn before me as I try to formulate a new plan. Cursing to myself, I slam _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm a Charm_ shut. Useless, completely useless. There's nothing I can use there, except going ass over teakettle crazy and torching the entire Great Hall with _Fiendfyre_.

A bystander would laugh at seeing how lost I am looking now. Books all around me, my face contorted with frustration as I try to make a cunning plan before the rest of the students get up. All stealth and subterfuge, like a damn-

Oh. _Oh yes._

The smile that split my lips is positively vicious.

 _Like a damn Slytherin._

The chair clatters on the ground as I get up and pick my cloak.

* * *

The bathroom of the Moaning Myrtle is blessedly empty as I go inside. My feet make smacking sounds as I walk through the water puddles, reaching for the central sink. The one with a little, silver, snake engraved in the tap. There was a time when I needed to imagine it being alive to use Parseltongue.

 _"Open."_

Not anymore.

Magic swirls around the room, cold and subtle, as the sink unfolds with a grinding sound. The porcelain shimmers and twists until it disappears, giving way to an enormous hole. I wrinkle my nose as the fetid stench of many centuries comes from inside it.

Professor Dumbledore likes to say that magic always leaves traces.

Getting from under my cloak, it takes almost no effort for me to locate what I am searching for. My plan is pure madness, clearly, but no one has ever accused me of being exactly sane.

I point my wand to the entrance of the tunnel. " _Percutio_."

Time to get to work.

* * *

Snape's classroom is, of course, protected by some enchantments. I let out a snicker from under my breath, really, it's almost cute to call these _protections_. It takes only five minutes for me to understand how to enter unnoticed and to do it.

The inside of the classroom looks even ghastlier than normal under the flickering light of my wand. Jars full of things I have no desire to see or know about are floating in the shelves, and I shiver as I catch the sight of eyeballs floating inside one of them.

As I search the classroom cabinets, it's easy to find what I am searching for. Props must be given where they're deserved, Snape is an organized dude. The label of a little crate reads " _Wit-Sharpening Potion_ ".

Inside it, there's a multitude of tubes from each student that attempted the potion, and each one is labeled with the name of the brewer the score they deserved. I search through them for anyone with the O grade, ignoring my own P, until I find a familiar name.

Hermione Granger.

" _Geminio_." Magic comes forth from my wand and, for a second, it looks as if the spell is sampling the target, before duplicating the test tube and the little note in perfect detail. Then I fill it with an Aguamenti, the spell changed just enough for the water to be of the exact same color of the potion, after what I put the cork back and return it to the crate.

"Thanks, Hermione," I whisper under my breath.

* * *

Clenching my jaw and wiping some sweat from my brow, I take a look at the scene before me. The pieces I have cut from the entrance of the Chamber of the Secrets are arranged in a pentacle around me, almost touching the Age Line. The stones are floating and their magic, embedded deeply into them and further magnified by my enchantments, is positively ancient and shines with a green hue.

With a flick of my wand, I cast a Privacy Charm around me, then I down the entirety of the Wit-Sharpening Potion. The potion takes hold of me almost instantly as the world gets sharper and dim around the edges, my mind getting free of clutter and stray thoughts.

Good. I'll need _focus_.

My wand cuts through the air once more as I make the symbols and runes of the Safe Passage Ward, the same I had tried without success earlier. Pale sunlight is already coming from the enchanted ceiling, but that can't distract me. _Nothing_ can.

I let out a breath as I finish weaving the ward.

Now comes the hard part.

To drive my enchantment through the Age Line, as it's anchored by the Founder Runes, I need authority I don't have. Just Occluding my intent isn't enough, just trying to interfere with the Age Line isn't enough, just being _Harry_ isn't enough. So I need to change that.

The stones I from the Chamber glow around me.

That old magic, untainted by the other three Founders, is pure Salazar Slytherin. Seeing how his magic reacts to me, how the arcane symbols twist into fractals before my eyes, I can begin to understand the principles that governed his mind. The guidelines of his actions, how he would think and act; understand _him_. My path becomes clear.

There's no one with more authority in this castle than a Founder.

 _I am Harry James Potter._

But I need to become _him_ , to take his authority as mine.

The haze of Occlumency begins to cloud my mind again, this time further potentialized by the potion. I let the trance embrace me as I craft the foundation, the bare bones, of a second mind, just by following what I can see of Salazar's magic. Instead of me guiding the magic, I let what it represents show me the way.

Then I turn my mind against myself. My Occlumency is sharp as a scalpel, cutting from my knowledge the parts that made me, _me_. It feels like a physical pain as I begin to forget who I am. When I begin to forget my story and my own mind turns into emptiness, a puppet with his strings cut. Everything is dark and everything hurts and _everything is nothing_.

 _Who am I?_

The _unnamed one_ catches the sight of the magic in the stones around it, stones someone had picked from _somewhere_ —the being craves for definition, for a name. Its mind is empty and full of echoes, so it latches on what the _green-silver-old_ magic is singing and begins to craft its new identity. Bits and pieces come into the being's mind, putting the meat on the skeleton of its personality, coalescing like it was meant to be. A new entity mirroring the reflexes of this strange magic.

A new mind inside its head contorts and rages with its birth screams. It can hear its heart beating faster as the mind settles.

Emotions flood in, twisted as the magic it sees. Subterfuge, arrogance, cold edges and sharp barbs, everything takes form inside its new mind. The entitlement of possessing a part of the world, the raw, clear sense of _deserving_ everything. The impetus to do whatever it wants, the perfection it finds during the pursuit of the only real might that there is. There are no chains on _it_ anymore.

The only thing that matters is _his_ power and desire.

 _I_ can do anything _I_ want.

 _I am Salazar Slytherin._

This ward that is carefully laid before my eyes is a work of beauty—a perfectly crafted arrowhead, full of might and intent to forge a new path through that _pathetic_ Age Line. My lips curl with disgust. The pretender has anchored this Age Line using my own power—my own will, a magic that is mine by right. Magic I'd bestowed upon _my_ castle. That shall not pass unchallenged.

" _Settle_ ," I hiss in the Noble Tongue and the Safe-Passage Ward obeys, drinking deeply from my own magic as it filters through the stones and then asserts itself on the Age Line. There is no fight, there is no _dispute_ possible. My personal rune flares inside the Age Line's own magic, like it's welcoming me. My authority as a founder supersedes even the pretender that calls himself Headmaster of _my_ school.

The Age Line is brought into disarray as my ward interferes with it, spasming madly, and a thin smile split my lips; if the Line had a voice, the magic would be _screaming_. Bright flares of light erupt, the enchantments mingling together as I walk towards the Goblet of Fire. The Age Line can't stop me— _nothing_ can stop me.

I am Salazar Slytherin. My will _is._

From the corner of my eyes, I catch the sight of students entering the Great Hall. They pause and look at me, bewildered—it must be such a spectacle. The Age Line is cut apart by pillars of light, as if it's a sea being split open, heralding my arrival and lashing without success at me. The air is charged with such magic it's almost solid. The students scream.

Worms being witness to a snake.

My smile is so sharp it could cut through solid bedrock as I calmly walk inside the ward and find myself standing before the Goblet of Fire. I fish a crumpled paper from my pocket and, with a casual flick of my hand, throw it inside the flames.

They flare red for a second before going back to blue.

My challenge for supremacy has been accepted at the Goblet's own peril.

As I step out of the circle, under the gawking eyes of these other students, my eyes met those of the pretender—the so-called Headmaster of Hogwarts, who dares to give orders in my castle. Sparks erupt from my wand as I narrow my eyes and scowl. That would be the last—

 _No!_

The stones from the Chamber turn into dust as the inky blackness of Occlumency is punctured from within. His—no, no, _my_ memories, _my_ mind, _my_ personality, all that is _Harry Potter_ come back. I fall to a knee, my hand over my eyes and my breathing labored, sweat trailing down my face as my mind is cut and then reassembled by knives of fire. It _burns_ and the other mind fights back. I feel more than see my ward collapsing behind me with an explosion of sparks…

 _I am Harry James Potter, I am Harry James Potter, I am Harry James…_

Panting, I get back to my feet, taking notice of all my classmates and assorted students looking at me with undisguised emotions. Susan has a hand over her open mouth and Fred and George jaws are hanging open; standing, between Angelina and Alicia, Katie is shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose.

Ron and Hermione look white as a sheet.

There are even some Professors here. Dumbledore has an eyebrow raised and his eyes are shining with curiosity, Professor McGonagall looks pale and horrified. Snape, that git, giving me a glare of utmost disgust, so strong that it could set water on fire. Moody is laughing, his voice gruffly and his mismatched eyes studying the scene before him.

 _I am Harry James Potter._

"Hey." My smile comes back. "Good morning?"

* * *

"He must be expelled, Headmaster," Snape's voice is measured and full of malice. "He has just flaunted all the rules of the Triwizard Tournament and of the school with just one, appropriately bigheaded, act."

I would be happier if he stopped talking just now. My head is still hurting.

"Honestly, Severus!" McGonagall interjects. "Mr. Potter hardly has-"

"Minerva, Severus," Dumbledore's voice has an undercurrent of reprimand and they shut up instantly. Then the gets up and walk to a cabinet, opening it and picking a potion from the inside. "Harry, look at me."

I stop fiddling with a strange instrument on his shelf, a delicate silver teapot that belches purple steam as little figurines orbit around it, and face Professor Dumbledore. "Yes, sir?"

"This is a Headache-Relieving Draught, please take it."

I smile at him, feeling very thankful, and slam down the foul-tasting potion in just one gulp. The pain in my head lessens for a bit as it effect settles and I take notice of Professor McGonagall and Snape exchanging heated looks, while Professor Flitwick is looking at me, contemplatively. From the Heads of House, just Professor Sprout is absent, as she had some business in a Greenhouse.

"Are you feeling better?" Professor Dumbledore asks and I nod, looking right at his eyes.

There's a light pressure on the back of my mind, the hallmark of Legilimency, and I instantly understand his unasked question. I give him a discrete gesture of agreement and the past night flash before my eyes in just a second or two, showing Professor Dumbledore all that had happened.

The Headmaster runs a hand through his beard and turns to the Professors.

"Except for being out of bed, I do not think Mr. Potter has broken any rule," he says. "Alas, if we prosecute every student who tries to go against the Age Line with expulsion, then we will find ourselves without half of our pupils. Mr. Potter just happened to be more successful than most in his endeavor."

Relief floods inside me at his worlds. For a minute, I felt scared.

Snape looks ready to spit fire. "Headmaster, I must insist-"

"Truly, Severus, if Mr. Potter happens to be selected for such a dangerous competition, wouldn't this be punishment enough?"

"This brat, selected?" Snape scoffs. "Impossible."

Dumbledore smiles. "Then, clearly, there's no real harm in his actions."

Snape's face contorts into a mask of hatred for barely a moment before it smoothes out, his voice going back to his habitual silky and low tones. "Then I think that at least thirty points of Gryffindor are an appropriate penalty for being out of bounds and detention for-"

"Make no mistake, he will serve detentions," Dumbledore intervenes with a stern look, "but these will be given at my own discretion."

Snape doesn't look all that pleased about his decision but wisely stops himself from saying anything more. McGonagall, her mouth now resembling a thin, single line, nods sharply at the Headmaster's proclamation.

Flitwick is the first to talk after that. "Now that this situation is solved, Mr. Potter, care to tell us _how_ you did it?"

I am startled by the question, possible excuses and stories without mentioning my Sight running through my mind, just to be discarded as far-fetched a split-second later. Coming with a blank and with all the attention of the room turned to me, I cast a pleading look at Professor Dumbledore.

"I fear that the fault lies within my teachings, Filius," Dumbledore says in a very jovial tone. "Mr. Potter has been studying Protective Enchantments with me for some time already, and he has put his knowledge into utmost effect to fool the Age Line."

A relieved sigh escape from my lips as they seem to buy this.

"Which begs for the question," McGonagall interrupts. "Mr. Potter, you must be honest now. Exactly _how_ advanced are you in my subject?"

"You know, Minerva?" Flitwick taps at his chin, his eyes scanning me. "I've had this same question bugging my mind for some time. Mr. Potter looks almost absently-minded at my lessons; yet, he has executed _perfectly_ whatever the class demands from him. Such nonchalance is only born from a deep knowledge about these matters."

"Exactly, Filius," McGonagall peers at me, her bafflement bleeding through her stern expression and her nostrils flaring. "I had supposed his distraction originated from trying to acclimatize with Hogwarts again, but it seems that, in truth, his little plot has been in preparation for a long time."

Snape makes a little noise of disgust that I ignore completely. My eyes meet Dumbledore's periwinkle stare for a second and he makes a discrete gesture of assent. A sigh escapes from my lips as I turn to look back at Professor McGonagall.

Her gaze is unwavering. "Well, Mr. Potter?"

"Sure, Professor."

Now, how to impress McGonagall _and_ Flitwick?

I get up and my wand is in my hand with barely a conscious thought, pointing to the chair I just vacated. My magic erupts, engulfing the chair and full of a determination, of a sense of change—a order said with such clarity the very reality can't help but oblige. I see all the strands connecting what it _is_ to what it must _become_.

 _Through magic, knowledge is power._

The chair shudders as my magic seeps through it, every particle obeying my will and flowing together to form what my magic made it be. The concept of a chair being used for sitting mutates through my perception to a dog being ordered to sit, both with four legs. The barest of the relations—but I can make it work.

All of that takes a split-second. The wood flows and twists and turns into the shape of an enormous, black dog, details appearing along its body as seemingly carved by an unseen artisan. It barks, sauntering in my direction, and open its maw. I crouch to rub its head; there's a good boy.

I smile at Flitwick and McGonagall, who is eyeing me speculatively, and puncture my finger with one of the dog's sharp teeth. The small trickle of blood is caught by my wand, floating just above the tip.

I bring it near my lips.

" _Anima Vitae_ ," I whisper and breathe on the droplet of blood. It expands in a cloud of red, engulfing the animal and entering his body through its mouth. It shudders, its eyes glimmering with an acid, bright green light, before stilling completely under my command.

"That's a golem, Potter," Snape says, his hatred of me giving way to pure academic fascination. "Rudimentary as I would expect from the likes of you, but a golem no less."

"Very interesting." McGonagall walks around the dog, muttering. "Transfiguration, Animation and a rather peculiar choice of Charms on top of it, Mr. Potter."

"Interesting use of the _Breath of Life Charm_. I imagine you tried to give it limited sentience?" Flitwick points in a bright voice and waves his wand around the construct, his face scrunched in concentration.

"Yes, I wanted to give Padfoot here the ability to make his own decisions, of sorts," I say, rubbing the dog's head again as he barks happily. "It would be useful as a sentry, keeping guard even without further input from the caster."

Flitwick claps his hands together. "Of course, I can see where you are coming from, Mr. Potter. Truly amazing as a choice of a guardian and even a limited, independent aide," he then turns to Dumbledore. "You were hiding _this_ from us, Albus?"

Dumbledore chuckles. "All must come to light in good time, Filius. Indeed, Mr. Potter has quite the penchant for Transfiguration and Charms, which has made imparting my old skills onto him a great pleasure for me."

McGonagall finishes analyzing the magic to her satisfaction and turns to me with a sharp look. "You have been holding on us for some time, Mr. Potter, and I must adjust my expectations accordingly." She then gives a small, proud smile, and turns to Flitwick. "Now, Filius, I think that we could hash something out about his schedule if this is the quality of the work we can expect of him."

My mouth opens wide with shock.

"Exactly my thoughts, Minerva. What do you think, Albus?"

"This is, of course, an interesting idea," Professor Dumbledore says. "We shall wait and observe, at least for today, and come back to this point in the near future. Is this agreeable for you two?"

Professor McGonagall and Flitwick nod in agreement while Snape looks to be on the verge of an aneurysm.

"If you are finished giving Potter _preferential_ treatment, I will take my leave," Snape says, his robes billowing behind him as he strides to the exit of the office. McGonagall's nostrils flare again with disapproval as she watches him.

"I, too, shall go back to my class," Professor McGonagall declares, his slight loss of composure now forgotten. "Care to come with me, Filius? We can talk in the way."

"Of course, Minerva. I'll see you later, Albus, Mr. Potter."

I wave in their direction, politely, as they leave the office. Professor Dumbledore lets out a breath and shakes his head. "Please sit, Harry."

I twist my wand and my dog-golem lets out a last, mournful bark, before turning back into a chair, on which I let myself fall.

"Thanks for the potion, by the way, sir. I thought my head was going to explode."

"Understandable." Dumbledore interlaces his fingers together under his chin. "What you did was very dangerous. The depth you have submerged yourself during your trance could be as well considered impossible to come back from," he says with seriousness. "If a headache is the worst that comes from it, we must consider ourselves very fortunate indeed."

"Sorry, sir." Heat creeps up my cheeks. "That was the only way I could think to pass the Age Line, but I acted recklessly and-"

"As is the folly of the youth," he says, giving me a warm smile. "But please, Harry, you must not fall into the trappings of arrogance. Delving into dangerous magic you have no experience with, as you did with this one, can spell your end."

I hang my head down with shame. "Yes, sir."

Professor Dumbledore keeps the silence while I fidget in the chair, his eyes X-raying me.

"If I can ask, my boy, why are you so adamantly about being a participant of the Tournament?"

His question catches me with my guard low. "Well, I… you see." I cough and the words begin to come out from my mouth like an avalanche. "To be honest? Glory. I am tired of being just the Boy-Who-Lived, sir, of being famous just for something I don't even remember right. I am _better_ than that. If I am to be famous, I want to be for my own actions, for my own ability and my own _magic_ , sir."

"I understand," Dumbledore says, "but that not all, is it?"

My voice hitches in my throat as I look back at him, noting the uncharacteristic seriousness of his expression.

"There's more, yes. The thing is, I-" my voice sounds weaker now, too vulnerable. "I wanted to show you that I am worthy of being your apprentice. I wanted to be _more_ , sir." Seeing his silence, there's a nasty feeling in the back of my mind. "I mean, I understand if you are angry about the Age Line and my- "

"Harry," Dumbledore says and my nervous ramblings die in my throat. His voice is masterfully controlled, but still full of an unseen strength. "What gives you the impression I even _disapprove_ of your actions?"

I gape at him, struck dumbly.

"Do you think that I am so vain as to be irritated about you using my teachings to go against my decree? Do you think that you prevailing upon the Age Line would offend me, or even shame me? Do not be _naive_ , Harry."

Dumbledore takes off his glasses with a sigh, rubbing his eyes.

"I knew the ward was fallible, yes. Do you think, even for a moment, that if I had put forth all of my own considerable knowledge and magical abilities, couldn't I have raised enchantments of such arcane origins that you wouldn't even comprehend, less so defy? Do you imagine that I consider your abilities so lowly, that the thought of you breaking the Age Line has never crossed my mind?"

"Then sir, with all due respect, why didn't you do it?"

"And take this choice from you?" Professor Dumbledore makes a sound of derision, looking more energetic than I have seen him being in a long time. "No, a choice that you have no way available but to take isn't a choice at all."

Fawkes appear near us in a ball of flame, the Phoenix's magic ancient and looks as if made of the different arias of a song, flowing together in a deluge of red and gold that's just _pleasant_ to see.

"You wanted me to decide if I wanted to enter or not?" I repeat, confused, and the color drains from my face. "This was a test?!"

Dumbledore chuckles. "A test? No, my boy, a test implies the existence of a right and a wrong answer. The correct term would be an _opportunity_ ," he says, spreading his hands on his desk. "Like every other student, you had the option to step away and keep pursuing a quiet, ordinary year. Instead, you decided to embrace the Tournament and put forth your name. Now, as you sit before me, after such a show of tenacity and resourcefulness, must I begrudge you? Discipline you, perhaps?"

Professor Dumbledore's peers at me over his glasses and there's a beat of silence before I find my voice again.

"You— you wanted for me to act," I say as his way of thinking is finally made clear to me. "You wanted for me to choose and learn to take upon myself the challenges coming with it. Am I right?"

"Exactly. Since the start, it has never been my intention to condemn or praise your actions, Harry, but to impart upon you the importance of _choosing_. Of being determined enough to even _make_ a choice." The skin around his eyes wrinkles further as he smiles. "And in this subject, my boy, I can say you got _full marks_."

My mouth hangs open again. From what I can understand, it was just a learning opportunity for me. That… that was just so completely, absurdly, pure Dumbledore. I can't keep the smile off my face and begin laughing, feeling suddenly drained as the lack of sleep catches up to me.

"Now, I am sure Madam Pomfrey is eager to have you on her clutches once more." Dumbledore's tone is lighter now and his beard twitches at the sight of my horrified expression. "Before you go, however, there's still the matter of your punishment."

I freeze in the middle of getting up.

"For acts of this scope, your punishment shall be twofold," his voice brokers no disagreement, a proverbial sword of Damocles hanging above my head. "First, you will have to serve detention until further notice with me, one time a week. The exact days will be decided on a later date. For the second part of your punishment, during this school year, you shall be suspended from the Quidditch team, effective _immediately_."

I blink, trying to decide if I have heard him right. Then I blink again.

"But there's no Quidditch-"

"Oh my. I am very sorry, my boy, as it seems that old age is indeed catching up to me with bouts of sudden deafness," Dumbledore says airly and waves me off. "As the punishments are already given, off you go to the Hospital Wing."

My snort of amusement is answer enough and I get up to leave.

"And Harry?" He calls and I pause with my hand on the doorknob, noting how all the humor is absent from his words. "Take heed, for each choice, there are always consequences; and as one enters the realm of prominence, the consequences tend to be exponentially grander," he pauses for a second, and Fawkes begin thrilling a note that fills me with courage. "That's the next lesson for you. _Good luck_."

* * *

A commotion in the Hospital Wing makes me put down my book and pay attention to the noise. After two Headache-Relieving Draughts doses, there's a haze of satisfaction, a sense of contentment lurking on the edges of my mind.

"Honestly! First Potter, then you two? And beards! What was that man thinking?" Pomfrey's dulcet tones cut through the silence, berating some poor soul. "Oh, I shall have words with him—you two can go to the bed next to Potter while I go."

My laughter came unbidden as I saw who was just coming by.

"Heiya, Harry," George says with a theatrical wave. He has a luxurious white beard on his previously unblemished face, which is swaying in the air as he walks in direction.

"You called?" Fred poked him, his beard almost identical to George's own.

"No, Fred, I was greeting wonderboy here, not you. You're _hairy_."

Lee follows them with a smile. "Hear, hear."

"Boys," Katie rolls her eyes. "Harry, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Katie," I smile as she comes to my bed and sits on it, her well-shaped legs dangling as she picks up my hand between her own. "Nice to see you, guys. Is Professor Dumbledore dabbling with cloning magic or something?"

Fred runs his hands through his beard, looking rather proud of it. "No, we tried to enter the Tournament too—Aging Potion and all. As you can see, it didn't work."

"Well, it's not like all of us can be Harry _freaking_ Potter," George adds conversationally, but his curiosity all but clear in his expression. "By the way, how did you manage that? I didn't know you even wanted to enter."

" _You_ didn't," Katie's says with a smug grin. "I, in the other hand, have known since the first day here," she says, rubbing circles in my hand with her thumb. "But even I didn't know he would try with an audience."

"That… was an accident," I run my free hand through my hair, slightly changing my position on the bed to better hide some circumstances. "It's a long, long story, guys. Seriously. _Long_."

"It's not like we're going anywhere," Lee comments. "There's like, five or six fellows with beards waiting for Pomfrey already. And after the last one she just took off in a warpath to Headmaster's office."

"My heart goes out to him, then," I say with a grimace. "Okay, buckle up you four. It all began with my Invisibility Cloak and…"

From here, I set upon a heavily edited version of the last night. Omitting anything related to my Sight and banking on the fact that being Dumbledore's apprentice, I have some measure of authority to talk about strange and esoteric magic.

"-Then McGonagall left the office and the Headmaster sent me to the Hospital Wing, and here I am," I finish, accepting a glass of water from Katie with a thankful nod.

"Let me get this straight," George pipes up. "First, you _Confounded_ Filch."

"Yes."

Lee is rubbing his temples. "Then you went to the Chamber of Secrets, which is in a _goddamn haunted bathroom_ by the way, and set upon doing some creative decorating with the liberal use of Cutting Curses."

"True."

"After that, _hypothetically_ of course," Fred fields the next question. "You may or may have not broken into a Professor's office, stole a potion, then forged a new one. All that without even a by your leave."

"Speaking hypothetically, correct," I say, scratching my chin.

Katie's blue eyes are shining with mirth. "Then, for a climactic ending, you committed _identity theft_ against a millennium-old, _dead_ Founder, and proceeded to bullshit the very reality so hard that _Hogwarts_ and _magic_ itself believed in you."

"Right-o."

"And after that." Fred raises an eyebrow. "You somehow managed to get off the hook, losing only thirty points in the process."

"Surprised me too, yes."

The four of them look at me in silence for a moment that seems to stretch endlessly, a mixture of awe and disbelief coloring their expressions, until Katie begins snickering and then devolves in a hysterical, full-blown fit of laughter.

"That's it, I am off," Fred says, turning on the ball of his feet and striding purposefully to the exit, dragging his twin with him. "Beard or no beard, I am going to find Pomfrey and get away from him before I get infected too. George, _come_."

Lee waits for a second more, enough to give me a last, pitying glance, and follows them, muttering under his breath and shaking his head.

Lovely bunch, these ones.

I turn to Katie, who is almost done with her fit of laughter, and my face twists in an expression of hurt. "Are you going to run away too?"

"Well, it _is_ a good idea to go before Pomfrey appears," Katie answers with a teasing lilt to her voice, inching towards me and with her thumb now lightly caressing the contours of my jaw. "But no."

I make a discrete gesture and the curtains draw closed around my bed. Katie keeps the silence, her finger tracing lines of fire in my skin even as we hear the faint echoes of Mount Pomfrey erupting near. I let my gaze roam her figure, pausing at the sight of her toned legs. More than her magic, it catches my attention how way her blonde hair reflects the sunlight, the relaxed carelessness she carries herself with—like Katie's completely comfortable being exactly who she is.

Katie's the first to break the silence. "Harry?"

"Yes?" I answer, not quite taking my eyes her pink, full lips.

"I was worried about you," she says. "You just collapsed to a knee and the Headmaster hauled you to his office, it was scary."

I feel like trash as I look at her expression, opening and closing my mouth without a sound. "I am sorry, Katie."

"You should be," she says, the levity back in her tone. "You know, if another person told me this story, I wouldn't believe it."

"Seriously?" My eyes widen with surprise. "Huh. Why?"

"That's what I am talking about." She huffs, waving in my direction. "You don't even know. Harry, the kind of things you do? They belong to stories and jokes, but you, somehow, make them feel _normal_." Katie shakes her head. "As if you just take a look at our weirdest thoughts and then go all _oh yes, that seems like a jolly nice time, let's try_."

"That's a way to look at it." I run a hand through my hair. "I dunno, Katie. I just—look, I see something I want and then go for it. It's not like it's a big deal or anything."

"No big deal?" Katie then laughs. "That's it, you're mad. Completely, raving mad."

"Seems to be the consensus around here," I answer, shrugging, and smile impishly at her. "What d'you think? Should I embrace the Dumbledore's way and begin to wear, say, magenta?"

She hums, not quite smiling at my joke.

"No," Katie answers slowly, her voice lowering and her breath quickening as her face comes closer to mine and she looks right at my eyes. "Magenta would clash with these beautiful-" Katie's finger runs up my cheek, " _wonderful_ star-flecked eyes, you _magnificent_ bastard."

I gulp. Katie's so close that—

"So Harry-" her breath feels hot against my skin as she whispers in a throaty voice, "do you see something you want _now_?"

Then her lips meet mine and my mind goes blank.

Katie feels warm and smells of sunflowers and her magic is _full of fire_ as I close my eyes and return the kiss. She tastes of strawberries and sweetness and more by instinct than anything, I put a hand on the back of her neck and pull her closer to me. Katie runs her fingers roughly through my hair as she climbs up the bed, without breaking the kiss for even a second.

I can't even think of fighting my smile.

Katie tastes of _victory_.

* * *

Pomfrey has held me in the Hospital Wing until the night had already fallen and I barely had any time to fresh myself up and go to the Great Hall. My time with Katie, short it was before Pomfrey shooed her, still put a smile on my face on my way to the Halloween Feast.

The first thing I note as I go for my seat, between Katie and Fred, is how the atmosphere is charged with tension; tonight is when the choice of the Champions would be made, and most of the students look like they're holding their breath. Even the decoration of enormous, carved pumpkins which are lit by a fire within, just adds to the suspense of the ambient.

"Hey," Katie says, laying her head on my shoulder as I sit. Fred and George, both them clean-shaven again just take a look at us and begin sniggering conspiratorially. "Are you ready?"

"Please, I was born ready," I affect a look of superiority as I hold her hand, and, by George's side, Angelina rolls her eyes. "Hey, Angie. Did you put your name in?"

"Of course I did; nothing showy like you though, so props for that."

I give her a shifty look. "Are you… you know, _mad,_ at me?"

"Why would I be?" Angeline looks at me like I am an idiot, throwing her hair over her shoulder. "You putting your name have nothing to do with who the Goblet will choose, Harry. After all, these two dunces have tried, too."

"It's just, you haven't visited me with those four."

"Er, Harry? That would be my fault," Alicia pipes up, a faint dusting of pink appearing on her pale cheeks. "I was helping Angie with homework and insisted for us to finish before seeing you. Then Fred came and said you were okay, except for, and I quote, _being a complete lunatic_ , and said that Katie was with you. So-"

"Alright, alright, I got it," I say, waving her off and smiling at Angelina. "I really hope it's one of us, yeah?"

"Of course," Angelina says. "I just want for that thing to get on with it already."

"That thing?" I ask. Following her line of sight, I set my eyes on the Goblet of Fire. It's in an empty chair in front of Dumbledore, his flames bright and dancing on its lid. "Oh, the Goblet. Right."

Even as the Feast run its course, I barely touch my food—expectation and excitement are coursing through my veins like molten steel. I'm not the only one, most of the students around me are finishing their meals rapidly and exchanging looks with one another, the suspense building.

Then Dumbledore gets to his feet and every smattering of noise dies.

Every pair of eyes on the Great Hall is fixed on him, and the Professors and foreign Headmasters are no better; looking at him expectantly.

"Well, the Goblet is almost ready to make its decision," says Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them to please come up to the top of the Hall and go through into the next chamber-" he indicates the door behind the staff table, "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

With a discrete motion of his hand, the lights dim—except the ones inside the carved pumpkins. There's even an unseen breeze, feeding the fire, as the starry sky above us seems to get darker.

The Goblet of Fire flares up and its magic seems to shudder as if shuffling between the information stored within, judging many and finding most of them lacking. The waiting didn't help with the nerves, as I see many of the students biting their nails, especially the foreigners.

"Come on," Lee mutters, "come on."

The flames then turn red.

Sparks dance on the air as a piece of parchment erupts for within the Goblet, smoking and charred. Dumbledore grabs it out of the air, studying it carefully before he looks back to us.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he declares, "will be Viktor Krum."

A wave of applause and cheering sweeps through the Hall, but I pay no mind—a tendril of magic comes from the Goblet in the form of a chain, every link of it a fiery red, shooting across the Hall until it latches its hooks into Krum's own essence. A magical binding contract, through and through. He seems to not feel it, as he gets up and walks right through Dumbledore, under the eyes of all the Professors and compliments for Karkaroff, until he disappears inside the chamber.

The clapping and cheering die as the Goblet turns red again, repeating the same process. A second piece of parchment shots from it, and Professor Dumbledore deftly catches it.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," said Dumbledore, "is Fleur Delacour!"

The blond girl with that weird, entrancing feel to her magic, elegantly gets up to her feet. Without pausing to give even a second look to her schoolmates, she saunters in the direction of the antechamber. Two girls from Beauxbaton begin sobbing as they see her going, which makes my upper lip curl with distaste.

"Pathetic," Kate whispers next to me.

I make a noise of agreement. Strange, Amélie, who was sitting near that Fleur, looks… relieved?

As the girl disappears into the chamber, the tension begins to run much higher than ever before. This is the moment of truth—the stakes are raised and the Hogwarts champion would be chosen now. Katie's grip on my hand is strong enough it hurts and I bit my lower lip, uncaring of the students that are stealing surreptitious looks in my direction as we wait.

The Goblet of Fire erupts in red flames again, flames of the color of fresh blood.

The parchment shoots up in the air, and the magic of the Goblet is strong enough that I can't recognize the imprint of the Name. Written by the owner own hand, Names always carry some magic with them—a principle used in Transfiguration. Dumbledore picks the parchment up and, for a second, his gaze met mine.

"The Hogwarts champion," he calls, his eyes twinkling, "is _Harry Potter_!"

"Yes!" I shout, jumping to my feet and punching the air. "Yes!"

I laugh like a madman as the Hall explodes with the noise of people clapping and yelling and booing, but I care nothing about them as I look to my friends. Fred and George are yelling with joy and Angelina, even if she looks a bit downcast, sends a warm smile to me. Alicia is whooping with Lee madly, both smiling, and Katie—

"You did it! You really did it!" she yells, her cheeks flushed as she pulls me into a hug and then into a searing kiss. The noise of the Great Hall stops for a second as I lose myself in the sensation, just to erupt again with catcalls and whistles as we separate. Katie's eyes shining with excitement as she rests her forehead on mine. "You awesome bastard, you did it!"

"Harry Potter," Dumbledore calls again, "in the antechamber, please."

With a last look to Katie, I get up to my feet and begin to walk into his direction. The magic of the Goblet shoots up in a chain of light in a vertiginous speed, hitting me with an almost physical force. I close my eyes for a second, welcoming it and savoring the sensation of the accomplishment, and laugh again. As I pass by Dumbledore, he smiles.

"Well done, my boy," he whispers, gesturing in the direction of the antechamber. "Well done, indeed."

The fact the Goblet had just chosen me between all those students holds absolutely no candle to the sense of raw, overpowering pride, that fills me at hearing his words.

As I enter the antechamber, Bagman, Thicknesse and the foreign Headmasters follow me. Krum is leaning on the mantelpiece, a taciturn look on his eyes and Bagman is extolling my virtues to high heaven. I promptly ignore him, my gaze falling on the French girl.

She looks at me with disbelief and a hint of curiosity, her skin looking like made of marble under the lights of the hearth's fire. Madam Maxime strides to her side, purposefully, and they began to exchange words in a rapid-firing French.

"There must be an error," Karkaroff says slowly with a deep accent, his hand lying on Krum's shoulder. "There must be. The boy is... fourteen at most? _How_ can he compete?"

I feel some savage glee as I recognize a hint of discomfort in his eyes.

Everyone turns to Thicknesse and he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, his eyes fluttering to the door and back. "You see—hum, this change was just made because Dumbledore championed it. There's nothing in the rulebook of the Tournament itself, or on the enchantments of the Goblet of Fire, about age..." he says, then add in a lower voice. "I think."

"Come on, Karkaroff!" Bagman says cheerily, gesturing in my direction, the great lump. "It's amazing! Mr. Potter proved himself as the third champion well enough this morning, I guess you've heard?."

Karkaroff fixes me with a stare and smiles thinly, his teeth yellow and uneven. "I am just preoccupied, Mr. Bagman, about his… health," his voice is unctuous as him and makes my spine crawl with disgust. "After all, is it right to expose a child to such danger?"

"I have full confidence that Harry will perform superbly," Professor Dumbledore declares in a powerful voice as he enters the room, a small smile still on his face. "In fact, I can even risk saying that the Goblet has chosen wisely."

"Of course you would," Karkaroff says under his breath.

"But 'e ees just a boy!" the French girl interjects and I turn to her, narrowing my eyes. Her face is a mask of politeness, but her words carry through the room and rouse awaken something inside me. "Ee's cannot compete!"

There's silence after that has almost a physical quality to its thickness, everyone's eyes falling on me. Bagman looks expectant and Thicknesse fidgets in his position. Madam Maxime is haughty as ever and Karkaroff hides behind his fake smile, but Professor Dumbledore turns to me.

His eyes are hard with determination and it emboldens me.

The worst part is that there's no derision on the girl's voice. It's just a mixture of pity and surprise like she is just concerned about my well-being instead of purposefully looking down on me. As if it is for my own good.

It makes my blood boil and familiar pressure builds in my mind.

I briefly close my eyes to focus my thoughts, trying to dispel that foreign feeling with the same mantra I've used before.

 _My name is Harry James Potter. _My name is Harry James Potter. My name is Harry James Potter-__

"You're right," I say, clenching my jaw. "But you see, here's the thing-"

I master myself enough to give her a tight, strained smile. A smile is devoid of any humor, more like a show of teeth than anything, and my voice is carefully controlled. I let my gaze roam around the room, taking notice of everyone here, until I settle by looking right at her blue eyes

"I don't intend to _compete-_ "

She raises a dainty eyebrow as Professor Dumbledore comes close to me and put a hand on my shoulder.

 _My name is Harry James Potter._

"I intend to _win_."

 _And this is my declaration of_ war.


	5. Chapter V

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 **I See Fire**

* * *

 _"Contrary to common belief, dragons are not selfish. Their whole being is suffused with the gift of fire—obviously, seeing how they fly with the ease of a fluttering flame. They are untamed and destructive and prideful, yes, but never selfish. In fact, most of the problems Wizards have with dragons are born from the great generosity with which the dragons try to impart the gift of fire upon other beings. Most of whom, to sadly, are not fireproof."_

— From the pages of _Crouching Sensibly: How To Hide From a Dragon_.

* * *

My head throbs with pain as I open my eyes, a decision I come to regret instantly. Bleakly, I take a look around and let out a breath of relief at finding my whereabouts. I am in my bed with the curtains drawn closed, hiding me from view and… with an Imperturbable and a Silencing Charm weaved on them? _What?_

Nonetheless, the call of nature is strong, so I try to get up to go to the bathroom. But then I find there's a weight pressing down on me, almost as if—

My eyes go wide.

There's someone in the bed with me, on top of me. Strawberry-blonde hair splayed over my chest and punctuating the silence with soft snores.

The memories from the last night come back to me with physical force. The party congratulating me for being a Champion. The twins offering me and Katie some drinks with a conspiratorial wink. The taste of Firewhiskey burning on my tongue—

 _Katie._

Despite some lingering feelings of awkwardness, I smile as the morning light reveals Katie's pale flesh in all its glory. She's curled over me like a cat, her grip on my arm vicelike. I let my eyes roam her body, remembering every detail. My body urges me to get up, but I felt I could wait a bit longer.

Eventually, my bladder couldn't take it any longer. "Hey," I call to her, running my fingers through her hair, rubbing gently at her shoulder. She mewls and groans, shifting her weight to one side, but doesn't awaken. Instead, she presses down on me even more and my voice gets desperate. "Katie. Rise and shine. _Katie_."

"Wha?" Katie whines. "Harry!"

Katie's eyes go wide for a second. then her expression smooths and heat creeps up her cleavage, reaching her cheeks. A lazy smile appears on her lips and she burrows her head deeper on my chest.

I manage to keep lying here for just a minute more, then I extricate myself from her and get up. Katie pouts and, seeing the unasked question on her expression, I motion over my shoulder towards the bathroom.

"Too much Firewhiskey?" Katie says, raising an eyebrow.

"Thankfully, not enough to forget." I grin at her. "See, I still remember the thing you did with your leg and—"

She lets out a giggle. "Be fast then. It's cold here without you."

Thinking along the same lines, I am fast in doing my necessities. As I look at myself in the mirror, though, I can't help and give a self-congratulatory smile.

"Potter, you're _awesome_ ," I exclaim aloud. Even the judge's refusal at sharing anything about the First Task barely holds a candle at the moment. "Handled it like a champion, you—"

I pause and then breathe on my cupped hand. Maybe a Breath-Freshening Charm should be in order.

Now done, I go back to bed and close the curtains behind me. Katie's giving me an appreciative look and it's the first time I can see her in her entirety. I admire her well-shaped, long legs, the contrast between her hair and milky-white skin, and her perky, firm breasts that would—no, _did,_ fit perfectly on my hands.

So. I am feeling lazy after the last night and I've got a beautiful, naked woman in my bed. All I can find myself thinking about is wanting to lay back down with her, which is exactly what I do.

I twirl a strand of her hair, watching it flow like water between my fingers. Then I hear her sigh, pushing onto my body and entwining our legs together.

"So, last night happened."

"Yeah," Katie says. "It did."

I hesitate, rubbing my fingers on her scalp. Her tone isn't familiar and I fear I've overstepped somehow.

Her next comment assuages me from my doubts. "The twins are incorrigible. I blame them for this.

"Better them than me."

She laughs and I can feel her body relax further. The silence is comfortable, and her warm skin is a welcome sensation against mine. Our lie down soon turns into a short nap, and I wake up to Katie tracing small circles on my chest.

There's a smirk on her face and, as I raise my head, the raised blanked is an easy indication of why.

I soldier past the embarrassment, refusing to let my face redden.

This silence, though, becomes awkward. This familiarity, this easy closeness between us is scary and _new_ to me. Doubts begin to flitter through my mind; what if that night had changed our friendship irrevocably? Turned it into something I'm not quite prepared to give myself into?

"Does this-" I pause, the right words difficult to find. Katie raises her head and her blue eyes meet mine. "Nothing changes between us, right? I mean—no regrets?"

Katie props herself up on her elbows. "No. Even if the circumstances weren't ideal, I've enjoyed it."

Her hand traces down my chest and underneath the thin blanket. _And I know you did too_ , her smirk, that damned smirk, all but says. Worse yet, she's absolutely right.

My throat feels dry, but I manage to speak. "I did too, yes."

"I mean, it doesn't have to change anything," Katie says, her voice firm and brokering no doubt. "We're still friends. And if we happen to have some… well, some chemistry together, so be it. There's nothing wrong with having some _fun,_ Harry."

Her words are just _right._ I let my fingers trail down her cheek and she leans on my touch, her eyes heavy-lidded and a small, teasing grin on her lips.

 _Oh, to hell with this._

I pull her into a kiss.

Her body feels feverish against mine as I deepen our embrace, my mind clouded by a hunger, a need for more _._ I reverse our positions and Katie interlaces her legs behind my waist, mewling with pleasure as my lips trail down her neck, her nails tracing lines of fire on my back.

"I really, really hope that your Silencing Charms are good enough," Katie whispers.

I pause for just a moment. "Katie, I'm Harry Potter- _"_

Her cheeks are flushed and, with each ragged breath she takes, her breasts are further pushed onto my chest. I can barely control myself enough to give a cocksure smile at the sight of her expression, her lips swollen and red and _irresistible.  
_  
"Of _course_ they are."

* * *

"Keeper, Rogue Bludger and Beater?"

"In three," I say, hiding my hand behind my back. "One, two… three!"

Crap. I have chosen poorly.

"I win." Katie leans back on the bed, letting out a theatrical sigh of contentment as she gestures toward the exit of the dorm. "You go and bring the food. And be fast, I'm famished."

"That's unfair," I get on my feet and begin pulling my robe on. "Really unfair. See, I am Hogwarts' _Champion,_ doesn't that mean I should get my own personal House-Elf or something?"

Katie laughs. "Keep thinking like that and your head won't through the door," she says, running her foot up and down my leg. "But hey. After you, the gallant Champion, comes back with the food, I am sure we can arrange for a dessert."

I don't have to think too hard about what this dessert will be, especially seeing how the covers are hiding absolutely nothing of her. I practically shot through the curtains, her renewed laughter cut short as I leave the protection of the Charms and run through the length of the Dormitory.

Muffling a yawn, I go to the common, pausing to do a double-take. There's no vestige from the party yesterday on sight anymore, no empty cups on the carpet and turned chairs, which is even more blatant because it's Sunday and most of the students aren't there.

Well, at least now I know the House-Elves will be in high spirits.

Before I can reach the Fat Lady's portrait, though, two blokes come sliding down the banister of the stairwell. Both of them look no worse for wear after the last night and are whistling a jaunty tune.

"The champion himself!" Fred exclaims, putting his arm around my shoulders despite my disgruntled expression. "The very man! Say, Harry, there's this little bird telling me he sneaked a peek of you and Katie going up together—"

"After which, according to our suspicions, we reckon you _peaked_ ," George completes.

I groan. Today is going to be a _long_ day.

* * *

The next day, after classes, I find myself standing on the doorway to McGonagall's classroom. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and rap my knuckles on the door.

"Please enter, Mr. Potter," She says

I step inside, doing my best to look contrite,

I hold a crumpled piece of parchment to her. "Professor McGonagall, your note said you wanted to see me?"

"I sure do." She makes a gesture towards the chair right in front of her desk. "Take a seat."

I obey, the sound of the chair scraping on the floor magnified to uncomfortable levels by the silence of her office. Fidgeting at her unreadable expression, I wait for the proverbial sword to fall as scenes from the party flash before my eyes. I can only guess why I am there, but according to the twins, McGonagall was spitting fire when she had to cut the festivities short, _far_ beyond midnight.

"Am I in trouble, Professor?"

Her gaze sharpens. "Is there a reason you would be?" She says and I shut my mouth, shaking my head. "Then no, you aren't in trouble. This time. You do, however, remember my words on the Headmaster's office?"

I do my best to not let my relief show in my voice. "Oh, yes. The tutoring?"

McGonagall gives me a nod, then she circles around her desk and points her wand at the blackboard. Complicated diagrams appear there as if written by an unseen hand as she turns to me.

"Albus has given me a comprehensive overview of your capabilities, therefore, I will not bother giving you an aptitude test. I trust that, seeing the blackboard, you can tell me the subject of this lesson."

I study the instructions and the schematics, humming under my breath. "Interesting," I mutter, narrowing my eyes. "Yeah, I see. The same origin, but the end product divided." I look back at her. "You'll be teaching me that, Professor?"

"Correct. As you can see, that's the logical progression after learning to Transfigure multiple objects." She picks a box from the drawer of her desk and places it before me. "Instead of changing buttons into say, the same number of beetles, you will begin at working with only two of them. However, I want you to change one into a _bonnet_ , and one into a _brooch_ —"

My smile must have ticked her off, because she manages to look even sterner before she finishes.

"At the same time."

"What?" I say with disbelief coloring my voice. "That's...

"Perfectly possible and, furthermore, offers a deeper knowledge about the possible relations between the objects." She then does a complicated motion with her wand at two of the buttons. "To say nothing of increasing your focus. Observe."

Her magic is subtle and controlled, but no less strong for that. It permeates through the buttons, the threads of light pushing their forms into almost opposites, only related through their Names. I look back at her, and my stupefaction must have been obvious as she concedes me a small smile.

"While important by itself, training to concentrate on two outcomes simultaneously is how you pave your way to the advanced practices of my subject. Such as a Human Transfiguration; at which you must take every detail into account to prevent grievous mishaps. Questions?"

I quail under the intensity of her stare, the buttons on my desk glinting with the candlelight as if mocking me. That would be hard, yes, but I never have been one to back down from a challenge, and I refuse to let this be the first one.

"No, Professor. I'll try."

"I want you to do more than just trying, Mr. Potter," she says. "While I do not expect perfection for the get-go, I shall suffer no half-done attempts. I want _excellence_."

I nod, setting my jaw stubbornly. "Understood."

Her voice then softens. "It's indeed complicated. However, if you wanted an easy task, I fear you shouldn't have taken the honor of our school and my House as your prerogative. And _this_ -" with another flick of her wand, an old and heavy tome gets off the shelf and floats to my desk, "will be your homework for the week. You can begin."

* * *

It isn't until later in the week that Professor Flitwick summons me to his classroom.

I cast a last look at the storeroom I have claimed as my own workshop of sorts. It's spacious, with Transfigured, random objects littering the floor while the walls show residues of spell-fire and soot. The table I'd smuggled from an unused classroom is almost hidden by the number of books and parchments I had thrown haphazardly over it.

Pausing to kick a helm that's halfway transformed into a crumpet further inside, I close the door behind me. The wards snap in alert—the concepts of _hiding_ and _distraction_ coursing through the magic. The room is near an alcove on the second floor, far away from the Gryffindor Tower, which gives me enough privacy.

On the way to Flitwick's Classroom, my thoughts turn to my tutoring session with McGonagall. After some practice, I've managed to Transfigure both of the buttons halfway through, to my great pleasure. When I told her, she pointed out that it was better than she expected already and then demanded that I read another book.

Professor McGonagall, you see, is a firm believer in the saying _no rest for the wicked._

Standing on the entrance to the Charms classroom, I can't help but feel a bubble of excitement as I knock on the door. Classes with Flitwick are always fun, and I have no reason to suspect that this one will be different.

"You can enter, Mr. Potter!"

A jet of red light speeds towards me as I open the door.

My wand cuts through the air, guided more by instinct than anything else, and my Shield Charm erupts as a bright silver wall before me. The spell splashes on it, dissolving in motes of light, and my reactions kick in overdrive as I point my wand to a chair. My mind flows between the connections seamlessly _— wood—tree—jungle—lion—_ and I Banish it against the attacker.

The wood splits and creaks and contorts in mid-air into the shape of a ferocious, roughly-formed, lion, and more spells crash and burn against my Shield. The smell of ozone is pungent and something tugs on my lower leg, bringing me down to a knee as the lion is frozen expertly in mid-air.

A Stunning Charm flies right over my head and I recognize the scent of singed hair. Snarling, I take my shield down, taking aim with a Blasting Curse already on my lips—

"Excellent Charmwork, Mr. Potter!" The sound of Flitwick's voice stops me in mid-incantation.

A sad, pale attempt of a Blasting Curse escapes from my wand towards the Professor. He bats it away with almost negligent ease and a blue, almost translucent barrier, shimmer around his arm where my spell impacted.

"And your reaction times are on point, too!"

"Professor?" I get back into my feet, eyeing him.

"You see, Mr. Potter," Professor Flitwick says, tidying the room with a dismissively wave of his wand. "Albus has told me you have a grounding at dueling already, but I had to see for myself. After all, it's one thing to be proficient in Charms on a calm environment, but using them by _instinct_? That's a completely different matter."

I rub my foot on a scorched tile of the floor. "Well, I'm glad you approve."

"Oh, where are my manners? Come in, come in!"

I follow him inside the room. Professor Flitwick points his wand to the lion, still snarling and held in the air by magic, and revert it back to a chair, which, then, floats to me. "Thanks, Professor."

"It's no problem. Now, seeing the current task at hand, I have decided to change my approach to teaching you. Instead of focusing on theory, you will have a more hands-on experience. We will keep practicing until your casting becomes second-nature." The small wizard then gives me an appreciating look. "Which, by the way, has a very welcomed effect at strengthening your spells. Charms are, after all, as much as _feeling_ and _practice_ as they are about incantations."

"I understand, Professor," I say, my gaze firmly locked at the unknown spell around his arm. "If I may ask, sir, what's this spell? Looks like a Shield Charm, but I've never seen this one before."

"I am glad you noticed. This spell is, indeed, a derivation from the standard Shield Charm." Flitwick then jabs his wand at the shield, making ripples appear on its surface. "A rather recent addition to the repertoire of duelists, created, if my memory is correct, by the wizard Johannes "Shieldless" Hammerstein—"

"Wait," I say, raising my eyebrows. "Shieldless? The bloke called _Shieldless_ created a _Shield Charm_?"

"Yes, and I imagine his opponents shared your surprise at it." Flitwick chuckles. "A clever tactic, no doubt. But back to the point, Mr. Potter, please show me your shield again. You appear to be proficient with it, but there is still room for improvement."

My eyes follow the direction of his pointed finger and, right where I was standing during our impromptu duel-of-sorts, there's a pair of heavy chains slithering on the ground. Realization then hits me; that's what had made me slip.

"After all, you can't shield yourself against what is already inside the barrier." Professor Flitwick smile turns cheerful at my look of surprise, then he claps his hands. "Now, the Shield Charm, if you will?"

* * *

Luna Lovegood is practically skipping ahead of me as she leads the way for the gathering of the champions, her bottle-cap necklace glinting on her neck. Through means unknown, she had found me skiving a Potions class and said to follow her, as they wanted me for something.

I assumed it had to do with the Tournament, so I shrugged and followed.

My mind is on autopilot as I digested Sirius' last letter, telling me he would be discharged in time to see the First Task. Even more mysterious, though, there is the thing Hagrid told me during the last Hogsmeade weekend.

Why the hell he wanted to see me? At _night_ , no less.

At least I'd had some time to talk to Aberforth. It's always invigorating to see how many different forms he could call me a bloody idiot for entering this tournament.

"That's where the Headmaster asked me to bring you," Luna says in an airy tone, her radish earring swinging as she turns to me. "You know, dad is very interested in your story, Harry Potter."

"What?" Her voice brings me back from dreamland. "Why?"

Luna gets closer. Her face is almost touching mine and her eyes brimming with intensity. "Dad writes The Quibbler, you know. And seeing how there's a vacancy after our Runemancer has been attacked by a Brawling Platypus, he asked me to get an interview with you." Luna then takes a step back, looking perfectly angelical again. "What do you say?"

"I'll… see what I can do, really." My smile is a bit strained as I inch away from her. "Thank you I really need to go now see you later bye!"

I positively run inside the room, closing the door behind me, and pause at the sight that greets me. The foreign Headmasters are already here, standing near their champions—Krum slouched and leaning on a wall, and Fleur Delacour, sitting prim and proper in a straight-backed chair.

Bagman and Thicknesse are here too, sitting near a stubby, sullen-looking man with a big camera and a blond witch, with whom Bagman is talking energetically. After seeing me, Bagman stops his conversation and bounces forward with an enormous smile. "The youngest champion! Come in, Harry, the Weighing of Wands."

Oh, that. "Sure."

"Yes, yes, Dumbledore is upstairs talking with the specialist, after what we'll be doing a photo shoot." Bagman then gestures towards the witch. "This is Ms. Rita Skeeter, she'll be doing a small piece about the tournament—"

"Maybe not so small, Ludo," she says and I do my best to smile. Skeeter is notorious; she has written some horrible things about Professor Dumbledore, and her pen was known to make and destroy careers. She has a square jaw, looking remarkably like a bespectacled bulldog, and is clutching a small bag made of crocodile skin that puts her long, crimson nails in evidence. "I wonder if I could have a word with Harry before we start? You know, just to add a bit of colour..."

"Certainly!" Bagman says.

She grabs my arm with a strong grip, but before I can protest, a familiar, firm voice echoes through the classroom.

"While I have permitted you to enter the grounds, Ms. Skeeter, I do not remember allowing you to manhandle my students," Professor Dumbledore says, striding into the room without any hint of humor in his expression and looking every inch the powerful wizard he is. "Please unhand Mr. Potter."

Skeeter releases me abruptly as if she has just been burned. "Now, you see here Dumbledore, the public has the right of knowing the truth about—"

Professor Dumbledore gives her a polite smile. "While the public has, indeed, a right to know the truth, it _is_ the letter of law that a minor can't give an interview without explicit permission of his guardians."

"But you aren't his guardian! You can't decide for him!"

"No, that would be the prerogative of Mr. Sirius Black-" Dumbledore fixes her with a look, "who, as you can see, isn't present at the moment. Else, he would certainly have some choice words about the situation at hand." Skeeter shuts his mouth instantly, fuming, as Dumbledore walks closer to me. "Now, while I would be delighted to hear your peerless reasoning about accosting a minor, I fear we need to begin the Weighing of Wands."

Dumbledore then gestures toward a wizard leaning on a corner of the room. It's Mr. Ollivander, looking exactly as he did when I last saw him. He has pale, silver eyes that appear to shine; but that isn't what catches my attention the most. It's the fact that my wand reacts with aversion, recognizing the magic of its maker reaching for it and refusing the touch, and I grab it tighter.

"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" Dumbledore says. "He will be checking your wands to ensure they are in good condition before the beginning of the tournament."

The other headmasters go and sit in the judge's table, but Dumbledore turns to me.

"A moment of your time, Harry," he says. "I fear my agenda has been rather strained and I couldn't partake on our weekly sessions. Still, I wanted to assure you they shall resume shortly."

"No problem, Professor," I say, scratching my chin. "I've managed to occupy myself."

"By adopting mountaineering as a pastime, perhaps?" The twinkle on his doubles in intensity at the sight of my incredulous expression. "I've heard an interesting anecdote involving you, one Ms. Katie Bell, and an ongoing search for previously uncharted peaks..."

Heat creeps up my cheeks. Merlin, I'm going to _kill_ the twins _._

Before I can say anything, though, a polite cough from Madam Maxime calls for his attention.

"Oh my, seems we are rushed for time," Dumbledore says, winking at me. "Off you go then."

My face is still burning as I go and sit near the other champions. Rita finds a chair on a corner and spreads a parchment on her lap, then sucks the point of a strange, enchanted quill, that begins writing as if guided by an unseen hand. She's still throwing looks at me.

Mr. Ollivander steps in the middle of the room and extends his hand to Fleur. "Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have your wand first, please?"

She gives it and Ollivander studies the wood with his long, thin fingers. The magic from her wand expresses itself in confident motes of light, that organize themselves in the resemblance of a song but sways with an internal fire. It's entrancing and dangerous; looking every bit like Fleur's own magic.

Like a maestro, Ollivander waves the wand and it emits gold and pink sparks. Then he runs a finger along the magic that only I can see—not outlining it perfectly, but enough to give me the impression he knows it's there and can feel it.

"Yes," he says quietly, "nine and a half inches… inflexible… rosewood… and containing… dear me…"

"A hair from ze head of a Veela," says Fleur, proudly. "One of my grandmothers."

I tune off their talk about wand cores, holding tightly at my own wand. This one doesn't appreciate being separated from me or touched by another. It erupts with angry sparks and Fleur raises an eyebrow to me, a curious glint in her eyes.

Taking my eyes from her admittedly nice figure, I watch and back Krum's examination. His thicker-than-most wand being the work of someone called Gregorovitch and boasting a heavy and stubborn magic. With a bang, it erupts with a flock of birds and Ollivander gives the wand back, turning to me.

"Mr. Potter, if you please?"

"Oh, sure." I force my expression to remain neutral as I get to my feet and offer my wand from to him, but I tense as he grabs it. The magic of the wand sings mournfully at being separated from me and I have to resist the impulse of reaching for Ollivander to snatch it back.

"Aaaah, yes," says Ollivander, his eyes suddenly gleaming. "How well I remember."

Silently, I hope that he doesn't tell them what he remembers. The fact that my wand was the brother of Voldemort's own is a well-kept secret between me and the Headmaster, and probably would send Skeeter into a cardiac arrest in the spot right here and now.

I fidget as he spends much more time examining it than anyone's else, a contemplative look in his face. "This wand is very attuned to you, Mr. Potter, in a way I rarely see happening with wizards much older and more experienced. To such a point that I dare not to try any magic with it," he then fixes me with a stare. "You treat it well, I hope?"

"It allows me to do magic-" I answer, gritting my teeth as I see his magic reaching for my wand, alien and foreign and _wrong_. "Of course I do."

"Yes, yes, holly and a phoenix feather as the core, thirteen inches… one of my best works," Ollivander says, then conjures a fountain of wine. "It's in perfect order, Mr. Potter. Here."

I seize my wand back and, instantly, On contact a warm feeling comes up through my fingertips and encompass my entire body. I close my eyes for a moment, relishing the return of the connection, and Dumbledore gains the center stage.

"Thank you, everyone," he says. "You may all go back to your lessons now—or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end—"

"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" Bagman exclaims, waving grandly at us and I suddenly feel a need of breaking his nose again. "All the judges and the champions together! What do you think, Rita?"

"Oh—yes, maybe we can do that first," she eyes me hungrily. "Then some individual shots, after that, a little interview too… with the four of them, mind."

Inspiration hits me like a sledgehammer and, doing my damnedest to not snicker, I smile towards Skeeter, who seems to be very surprised at my supposed agreement.

"I'm okay with the photos, Ms. Skeeter, but I think I already promised an interview elsewhere," I say in a serious voice, relishing the red color that creeps on her broad cheeks. "That's most dreadful, indeed."

"Do you, now?" She raises an eyebrow. "May I ask with who?"

"Sure." My lips split into a smile that has every bit of mischief I can muster. "You see, there's this magazine called The Quibbler..."

* * *

The smell of wet grass wafts up from the ground near the lake, but I pay it no mind, focused on controlling my magic as my wand lets out a fierce, constant stream of red and gold light.

Two balls of water are floating above the smooth surface of the lake, my magic running through them and poking and prodding until they change. One of the globs turns into the form of a snake, made of ice—it creaks and grinds as it's further Transfigured with every fluctuation of my will. The other sphere whistles as it dissolves into a cloud of vapor, which then begins to circle the snake, cohesive under the hold of my spell.

"Harry?"

That voice breaks my focus like a rock through a window. The vapor billows away and the snake falls into the lake, spraying me and my guest with water.

"Bollocks—oh, hello, Susan." I wave my wand in an arc encompassing her body and mine, my Charm drying the water. "Sorry for that."

Susan smiles brightly. "No problem. What're you doing?"

"McGonagall's homework," I wave the question off. "How are you, though?"

"I'm okay, thanks. I just—" Susan cheeks then blush with a pretty pink and she begins to circle the wet grass with the point of her foot. I note that Hannah is standing some distance from us, her expression troubled. "I noticed you weren't' in Herbology class Friday."

I blink.

"Right. I kind of… well. I forgot."

"Seriously Harry? I mean, after Skeeter's article, there are all these rumors and-" Susan then fidgets, looking mighty uncomfortable. "I feared you had taken exception to the gossip."

"No, I really just forgot." I raise my hands in defeat at her look of disbelief. "Honestly, Sue."

Thinking about it, Skeeter's article saying that I was a mix between a god-child and an angsting, hurting teenager, had been mildly entertaining. At least seeing how Fred and George had read it out loud to the whole Gryffindor Tower. I really need to get Sirius a copy, he will have a laugh.

Seeing that Susan still looks troubled, I raise an eyebrow. "So… these rumors?"

"Haven't you heard about these?" Susan then crosses her arms, which does nice things to her sizable bust and draws my eye. "Oh, they are a load of dragon dung, if you ask me. Some people in my House aren't happy at you being chosen as Hogwarts' Champion." She then waves dismissively. "They think you stole Cedric's thunder, you see."

To be honest, I don't. Maybe that's because I have absolutely no clue about who this Cedric bloke is, but she doesn't need to know that. So I smile at her, doing my best impersonation of Professor Dumbledore, and hope she buys it as some expression of calm acceptance and inner peace.

"Honestly sue, you're still alright in my books."

Her lips split in a broad smile, and her eyes flicker to Hannah's position.

"Sorry Harry, Hannah's waiting for me, but I wanted to know if you were… mad at us?" Susan says, brushing her hand on my shoulder as I shake my head. "Excellent, I _knew_ you were too sweet for that. See you later then?"

"Yes, and don't be a stranger," I wave as she strides towards Hannah, my eyes glued at her delightfully firm bum as she goes. It takes some strength of will for me to turn back at the lake. "That was nice of her. Now, enough sightseeing, let's try this again."

But before I can do anything, I feel something poking my arm.

" _Speaker!_ " Ananke's acid-green body is camouflaged by the grass around us, but her voice has a hint of urgency. " _Thank Jormungandr you're here! I need to show you something that's going to curl your tail! It's very important, you see, because you don't even have a tail!_ "

" _Ananke_." I lower my face towards her. " _What are you talking about?_ "

The little snake flicks her tongue, curling her body under my sleeve and looking distinctly fired-up. " _I heard from Kalia who heard from Angitia who is friends with Ophion that was hanging around the Clearing with Ladon—that beast—and they're saying that…_ "

* * *

My breath comes in uneven gasps of air as I thunder inside my workshop and slam the door behind me. Ananke had been right. Ananke had been damn right, and my incursion at the Forbidden Forest minutes ago had just proved it. I take off the Invisibility Cloak and run a hand through my hair, making dried leaves and twigs fall to the ground.

Dragons!

I kick a bucket away and let myself fall on the chair, putting my face between my hands and trying to come with terms to what I have just seen. Three enormous, reptilian beasts, one for each champion, their magic primitive and as full of fury as their fire is.

I have to defeat a dragon.

 _Fuck_.

As I begin to contemplate the enormity of that task, I let out a deranged laugh—so that's my punishment for my hubris. To go against a dragon before the whole school, like some damn medieval hero. It's no surprise that people have been killed on this Tournament.

The image of one of that beasts pops again on my mind. Black and with yellow, glowing eyes full of a intelligence and malice that I couldn't relate to a mere animal. The creature knows where it is, it knows exactly how powerful it is compared to us meek, pitiful humans, and it _hates_ us for daring to cage it.

I press my palms against my eyes. The discipline born from practicing Occlumency taking the forefront of my mind and forcing my emotions down. I need to think—not scream and curse or explode something.

The dragon's magic is all-encompassing and the creature seems much bigger for it; made of whispers of smoke and burning with the unearthly glow of a thousand braziers. Power gifted by nature to a veritable killing machine, pressing down the world as it stands above all, full of pride and strength and—

And, now I've forced down my shock, it absolutely _pisses me off_.

The idea of one of these beasts thinking they are the greatest heavyweights around, that they are the righteous and their arrogance deserved, is ridiculous. They are powerful, yes, but that's it. They have no finesse. No _skill_.

 _Please_.

"Looking down on me, will you?" I say under my breath, remembering that oppressive weight carried by the dragon's magic. "You think you are above me?" I get to my feet and my voice is barely more than a hiss. "To hell with you, then."

This feeling I am deeply familiar with. I am charged as electricity seems to course through my body and my thoughts get sharper, clearer, eerily reminiscent of what I felt during my adventures. This new task spreading before me appears to be daunting and impossibly difficult, but so did the others, and I am still here.

So. I'll need to defeat a dragon.

 _How?_

The answer comes promptly.

"When in doubt," I repeat Hermione's motto, "go to the Library."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Your opinions in the reviews are always appreciated!**


	6. Chapter VI

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing

 **Chapter VI** — **Master of Puppets**

* * *

 _"The thing about Harry, is that instead of being like all of us, he_ loves _magic_ _. He_ breathes _magic. In situations we would say_ 'yeah, that can't be done', _Harry comes in, smiling like the devil, and asks,_ 'why the bloody hell not?'"

— Katie Bell to Angelina Johnson.

* * *

I creep back to my workshop under my cloak, the books in my bag are a welcomed weight. I follow the Marauder's Map dutifully, back to my workshop. Strange. The path back to it seems to be different.

No. It doesn't just appear different, it _is_ different.

The room could usually be found two floors below Gryffindor Tower. Now, it was just a corridor away, next to the tapestry of a man fighting a murder of crows. I let my fingers trail the stone walls, a smile of appreciation on my lips.

"You've changed," I whisper. "For me?"

One might mistake it as a trick of the light, but near me, a suit of armor appears to nod.

I won't disappoint. I bolster my resolve, and then, aloud, I say "Thank you."

The night dissolves in is a blur of ink and the smell of old parchment as I greedily devour any information the Library had to offer about dragons. Magically resistant beasts, with a fiery breath that burns hotter than anything else this side of Fiendfyre; combine that with their scales as tough as steel and their size enabling them to overpower almost anything through sheer strength.

Some bloody breeds even ate elephants.

I close the book _Crouching Sensibly, Hiding From a Dragon_ , that has the helpful advice of "hightail the hell outta here" to give about meeting one of the lizards, then lean back on the chair and plop my feet on the desk.

What can I do to win? I need a solid strategy if I'm going to come out of this relatively unscathed, as well as put on a good show for Dumbledore

Hell, the dragon isn't even the scariest beast I've seen, that honor belongs to the—

The front legs of the chair slam on the floor. Yes, that makes sense—for the plan I was toying with, at least. One thought settled on my mind with the weight of iron.

I need to practice.

Practice, and, even more, _information_.

* * *

Professor sharp gaze roams the classroom as she shuffles our essays. "Before you're free to go, I have something to tell you all. From now until the end of the year, you'll be forming groups of three, and each one of you is now responsible for a project. You shall create an entire new runic array, with a function of your choosing, and this is to be delivered at our last class. The groups-" she then picks a box from under her desk, "will be chosen randomly."

My attention wavers as she selects the groups, wanting it to be done so I could ask unrelated questions. My interest is piqued, though, as she says my name.

"Harry Potter, Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass," she says, giving a look at each one of us. "You will constitute the fifth and last group. That's all, class."

As everyone gets up to go, I catch the violet eyes of the only female of our group, Daphne. She pauses, giving me a scrutinizing glance, and then throws her hair over a shoulder, beginning a fast-paced conversation with Zabini in her way out.

That will be interesting.

"Mr. Potter," Professor Babbling walks to my desk. "There's something you want?"

"Actually, yes, I wanted to ask more about the uses of runes to enchant objects. More specifically, if it's possible to create a Golem from spell-resistant materials."

"That's a very advanced question, Mr. Potter. Well above the scope of subjects to your current year. Can I ask what material you've got in mind?"

"Magical creatures."

If my question has surprised her, she doesn't show it except for a slight raising of her eyebrows. Humming, she thumbs the books on the shelf of the classroom, then she picks a thin, well-worn treatise, and puts it on my desk.

"As you can see, here-" she opens it to a gruesome image of someone being eaten by an Acromantula, drawn in sickening detail. "It has been attempted. The obstacles are obvious: the magical resistance of the beast blocking the spell, for a start. Then, even if it is dead, there's the raw dissonance between the creature's inherent magic and the caster," Professor Babbling says, pointing at a line of the book. "Think of it as trying to light a fire with a wet cloth, as the results are often disappointing."

My enthusiasm begins to wither. "So, it can't be done?"

"I never said that," Professor Babbling says. "It can be done if one uses runes to chain the spell, as you have asked. However, as it happens, if the caster's magic overpowers the creature's own, the magical properties of the remains are wiped—no, washed out."

"What's about that, then?" I show her a paragraph under the drawing of a hard-faced, thin man commanding a three-headed snake against a bunch of grim-looking wizards.

Professor Babbling sighs.

"That's, indeed, the exception to the rule. Utilizing his connection to snakes through the magical ability of Parseltongue and an unknown array, this wizard-" She makes an expression of distaste, "the infamous Herpo, the Foul, commanded a reanimated Runespoor as his Golem during the Sundering of Creta. Supposedly, the beast turned into dust after only five minutes, but before that it was perfect. Practically alive."

"Interesting," I mutter. "Say, Professor, can you lend me this book for a while?"

"Just don't go tearing it apart, Mr. Potter."

* * *

"Harry! I din' expect ye until later!"

Hagrid's cabin is interesting, to say the least—the pure magic of the strands of unicorn hair, hanging from the ceiling in a thick braid, contrasts with the jar of Acromantula venom on his shelf and the small, long, and eel-looking creatures swimming in an aquarium at his counter.

"Er, Hagrid? I already know about the dragons."

A blush spreads over what I can see of his cheeks. "What do ye know, eh?" He says, running an enormous hand through his beard and smiling. "I musta forgot how sneaky ye are."

"Thanks." I give him a grin. Hagrid chuckles and begins to busy himself by picking some tea for us. The cauldron-sized mug clink before me as he put it on the table. "I wanted to ask you a question, though."

"Fire 'way."

"Can you tell me about how you go about harvesting magical creatures? I mean-" I wave towards his shelves, "those need to come from somewhere, right?"

"Havin' an interest in Care of Magical Creatures, are we now?" Hagrid beams, proudly, and motions at a box in his garden, hidden between two of these giant pumpkins of his. "Thumpin' good time to ask, too! I was just about to take a look inside some of the Skrewts," he says, sounding a bit disappointed. "Critters keep killin' themselves. So what ye say about coming wi' me and seein' what makes 'em tick, eh?

I glance at some of the living Skrewts, running around their pen and looking like amorphous crabs, spitting fire from one of their extremities as their stingers wave menacingly above them.

My smile is fake as they come. "Let's go, then."

"'Ere's a good lad!" Hagrid says and his slap on my shoulder almost bring me down to my knees. "Firs' thing ye need to do is to wear some thick, strong dragonhide gloves'—ye never know what' yer gonna find…"

* * *

I close the door and, with a wave of my wand, I dispel the Disillusionment and Levitation Charm cast on the load I've brought with me. A heavy thud echoes in the room as the crate slams on the floor, flickering back into view.

I eye the box with distaste, imagining all too well how the corpses of the Skrewts must look inside it—the disgusting lack of head and the multiple thin legs that give the illusion of movement, even in stillness.

Shaking my head, I pause to throw my Invisibility Cloak on the backrest of the chair and sit, spreading the Marauder's Map on the table before me. My eyes keep fluttering to the box, but there are things to do before I even have to touch that. Best to get on with it.

With a flick of my wand, a stuffed cat shoots through the air and I catch it.

" _Anima Exerto_ ," I whisper, and the cat's form ripples as my magic hits it—my Animation Charm bleeding into its fur and pressing the concept of movement and obedience into it. The residual, primal magic of the cat is rewritten, turning from the echoes of the cat's life to something _else_ under the pressure of my magic.

I bring my face closer to the cat, my nose nearly touching its fur, entranced by seeing the shapes of the magic; they're a cross between a fractal and equation and a declaration of servitude.

The cat meows, lowering its head in complete subservience to me.

"Maybe if I add Weland's Spiral…" I mutter and, with my Sight firmly focused on the cat, I begin to change the spell, watching the threads reshaping under the tip of my wand and the incantation a whisper under my breath; the cat starts glowing.

"Bugger!" I Banish the cat away from me just in time as its edges start smoking and the magic glows a deep red. It explodes in the air, fur flying everywhere. Shaking my head, I eye the bunch of objects in the room as I Vanish the pieces of clay from my desk.

I clench my jaw. The first attempt was a resounding failure.

"Again."

* * *

I lean back in the chair and let out a deep breath. The room is full of noise and movement—the metal replica of a sparrow soars, almost touching the ceiling, as two toy soldiers wrestle in a circle on the ground. There's a suit of armor playing tic-tac-toe with an angry-looking fruit-bowl in a corner and, on my desk, a quill slithers like a serpent and hisses from time to time.

All of the objects are Animated—I let my gaze navigate through the now very, very familiar foundations of the spell I can see acting on the quill, and mark note in the parchment before me.

" _Finite Incantatem_ ," I cast and they all freeze in the middle of their movements, my magic drained from them. I brush the quill into a desk drawer and shove the Marauder's Map in my pocket.

A Levitation Charm puts the crate in the table, the lid sliding to reveal the contents within.

Rummaging through my bag, I find my dragonhide gloves and put them on.

The dead Skrewts exudes with a sickly-sweet scent of rotting meat, the numerous wounds that killed each one of them oozing a greenish liquid that pools on the underside of the box. I stop myself from recoiling and pull one of the reeking corpses out.

The sight of the white underbelly and the segmented insect legs make my stomach curl, but the magic of that thing is strong. It flows from every little, nauseating, part of the creature's corpse, flickering like a flame and forming a solid sheen of crimson on the magical resistant carapace. I'd been gifted them—Hagrid couldn't find anything useful and was going to just let them for compost.

" _Anima_ Ae _xerto_ ," I cast on it, taking note of how the shell deflects part of my magic, loosening the hold of my will on that thing. The Skrewt spasms, spluttering some flames just before it turns inert again. Narrowing my eyes, I repeat the Charm, time after time, tweaking it until it finally takes hold.

I frown, looking at the familiar sight of my spell corrupting the Skrewt's own residual magic, eating away the crimson barrier on its shell. That's not what I want. The little monster, now animated, gurgles by means unknown as my magic take hold.

That's was what Babbling was talking about. _Useless_.

I sigh and Vanish it.

I pick another dead Skrewt from the crate and, this time, I let my wand lie by the side as I put the body on the tabletop. I take a penknife from my bag, one with strong enchantments to cut through the hardest materials that I've used in the Ancient Runes Class, and get to work.

I start scratching in the shell—there's some resistance, this knife being barely more appropriate for the task than a normal one, but the runes begin to set after some minutes of struggle. _Perthro_ , for penetration, chained with _Algiz_ , divine consumption.

The Skrewt's magic trembles but I barely notice, starting to draw the _Eye of Horus_ that Professor Babbling had shown us. _To light the way_ …

I pay no attention to time as I focus completely on the task.

After what feels like an hour, I wipe the sweat from my brow and take a second look at the runes. They shine with golden light from within, carefully etched on the beast's shell, almost like a ritual preparation to an ancient funeral.

I point my wand and cast the spell. My magic coils from its tip and caresses the runes, taking a firm hold on the corpse. The magic of the creature remains intact, but I will hold my celebration until the end.

With an unearthly shriek, the carcass spasms. My spell is successful but doesn't mesh together with the Skrewt's magic, as if they're oil and water. A dissonance is clear between them, and the beast keeps convulsing until it turns to dust under the strain.

"Bollocks!" I Vanish the dust away, ignoring the scratch marks on the table as my anger supercharges the spell. I prop my head on my hands and try to find a way to pass through this newest obstacle—in hindsight, my error is obvious. The runes were carved by me, and the Skrewt's magic didn't accept it. It's too foreign to agree with its essence.

I need a medium to balance them.

I cringe as my elbow touches something wet on the desk. The bottom of the crate is dripping with that vicious, foul-smelling, liquid. I raise my wand to dry it and—I freeze in mid-movement.

My medium. I smile.

* * *

As I heal the little scrape in my finger, I let my mind wander.

 _Blood has power._

The penknife glints by my side, stained with mine and the Skrewt's blood, which I used to carve the runes in the little monster lying on the desk. No more golden or crimson, they shine with a coppery glow, a mix between my own magic and it's own.

The spell comes to my lips almost without prompting. " _Anima Aexerto Vitae_."

This time, as my magic goes through the corpse, there's no dissonance. The Skrewt's magic recognizes the traces of its own, even if only just, and allows the spell to take hold easily. The little beast shudders as tenterhooks of magic grab its essence and twist.

If my magic would destroy the beast's as my spell took hold, the answer for that was beautiful in simplicity, but only possible because I could see and understand the peculiarities of the creature's essence.

The spell starts devouring the Skrewt's magic as if using it as fuel. The creature magic is still present, still doing its job, because, after my tweaks, the spell isn't the source of power anymore. It's a _framework_ , forcing the Skrewt's magic to cannibalize itself.

"Yes!" I punch the air and can't help but laugh at the still magical-resistant Skrewt staggers to its feet, ungainly. Even as I watch it, its body is already eroding little by little as my spell eats through its magic, yet, during this window of time, small as it was, I am its master. "Yes, you horrible, undead little monster, yes!"

It doesn't take much before the spell is done with the meager supply of magic and the body of the creature is completely consumed, like that Runespoor of Herpo, the Foul.

But it's a start, and I can work with that.

Possessed by a mad glee, I pull another Skrewt from the crate and—

"Shite!" I almost drop it as the thing's backside explodes.

Thinking fast, I throw it on a corner of the room and Transfigure a bit of clutter into a small fence around it, just as the abomination squirms back to its feet. It seems that this one was only mostly dead.

I make a face as it does a weird sucking sound.

"Gross. You best stay here-" I do my best to imitate McGonagall's stern tone and take the sparks erupting from its backside as agreement, "yeah, you do that, you little abomination you."

Then I turn back to the crate and start rubbing my hands together.

"Now, what's next?"

* * *

I wake up as something pokes my forehead.

Groaning, I crack an eye open and see a little airplane made of parchment floating around my head and dive-bombing me from time to time. Unsticking a page The Magical Butcher from my cheek, I yawn, my nose wrinkling as the smell of dead Skrewts piled near my desk hits me.

Brushing off the clutter from the table with the back of my hand, I catch the airplane and spread the parchment here. It's a note from Katie, asking me where I am. I take almost a minute to find my quill and some ink, still half-asleep, and scribble the directions to my room.

Tapping the parchment with my wand, it folds in the shape of an owl and soars through the windows. I rub my eyes and take another look at the room, that wouldn't do.

I Vanish the pile of Skrewts, their magic depleted and inert, and a wave of my wand send all the things to go to their right place. I take a minute or two to Transfigure a comfortable sofa from the suit of armor, on which I let myself fall.

The wards of the room tense as someone knocks on the door. "Harry?"

Recognizing the voice, I get up and open the door. Katie's here, leaning on the doorstep and still clutching the parchment on her hand.

"Please enter."

"Thanks," she says, pausing to give me a peck on the lips. "When I read that you were in a room near the tapestry of the wizard Edgar and his crows, I thought you were joking." Her gaze roams the room and she lets out a whistle as she steps inside. "I guess you weren't."

"I wasn't," I say, gesturing towards the room. "Welcome to the Potter Lounge."

"Getting a bit big-headed, aren't you?" she says, but suddenly stops dead in the middle of the room. I get behind her, snaking my arms around her waist, and kiss her neck. "Er, Harry?"

"Yes?"

" _Why_ -" Katie is so still she appears to be frozen, "do you have a Blast-Ended Skrewt inside a playpen? And _why_ ," she says, pointing a trembling finger and looking pale and wide-eyed, "is the Skrewt wearing a top hat and a monocle?"

"Oh, this." I rest my chin on her shoulder. "This is Mr. Puffington."

I take an owl treat from my pocket and throw inside the pen.

"Mr. Puffington," Katie repeats, slowly. "You named it. _Mr. Puffington_."

"Yep," I say, stepping away from Katie and picking up a stick from the floor, which I use to begin poking the sleeping Skrewt. The creature makes a sound that resembles a screech just as his… backside? Yes. His backside explodes with flames. "By the way, Katie, he's saying hi."

She blinks. Then blinks again and shakes her head.

"Right," she says, wrenching her eyes from the sight of Mr. Puffington eating the treat and turning to me. "I just wanted to ask if you want to go flying, seeing that I have a free period now and you're never in the Common Room these days."

"Sure, just let me pick my broom."

* * *

"What have they done?" I mutter in shocked disbelief.

By my side, Katie's eyes are wide as saucers as she looks at the Quidditch Pitch. It's almost unrecognizable—the hoops had been taken off and, in the middle, there's a raised dais of stone, taking almost the entire length of the Pitch and peppered with rocks. The only part of it that's unchanged are the spectator's stands.

Katie manages to find her voice. "That's madness."

"Agreed," I say, still glaring at the Pitch like it's a rotting corpse.

Katie turns to me and her cheeks are reddening with anger.

"Do you know why they did this?"

"I think-" I kick a tuft of grass, "we have just found out where the First Task will be held."

* * *

Professor Dumbledore managed to find me coming back from the Pitch and cheerfully beckoned me to follow him. While we walk side by side towards some mysterious destination, though, my curiosity gets the best of me—not that it surprises me anymore.

"Where are we going to, Professor?"

"I am glad you asked, Harry," Professor Dumbledore says. "We're going to meet the esteemed Madame Abigail Malkin, who will be responsible for making your uniform for the First Task."

"So, glorified clothes shopping?"

"Basically, yes."

"Joy," I say and roll my eyes.

Professor Dumbledore raises an eyebrow. "If you have other matters to attend, you can, of course, leave after your measures are taken," he says, his smile getting wider. "I would be delighted to help her to decide the appearance of your uniform."

I take a look at his purple robes that are crisscrossed by green shooting stars.

"No, I'm all for clothes shopping sir," I say, raising my hands in defeat, and then add under my breath. "Not that being fashionable is going to help me against a dragon, mind you."

Professor Dumbledore pauses. "Am I to understand you have already found about the First Task?"

"Yes, I just used common sense. If there are big, flaming, pissed off dragons hidden inside the Forbidden Forest, of course, I'll need to fight one of them." I put a finger under my lips. "The fact there are three is kind of a big clue, too."

"A sound reasoning, indeed," Dumbledore says and enters a room. "Come in."

"Then there's the fact that Ananke has a friend that thinks the Swedish Short-Snout looks _fetching_. I mean—"

Madame Malkin don't let me finish the sentence, though, and ushers me to step on a stool. Her unnamed apprentice lurks on a corner, watching us and being barked orders at from time to time.

After that, it's an eternity of torment—one I endure because Professor Dumbledore is near us and eager to help. There's no I'm going to step onto the arena using robes of magenta and lilac, with some dashes of purpurine thrown in for good measure, thank you very much.

Finally, the portly witch nods. "I think that should be it, Mr. Potter," she then beckons the assistant. "Jacobs! Come here with the drawing!"

The mousy-looking assistant scurries in my direction, holding his drawing before him as if it had a nasty disease. I hum, studying it—it was good. Like my Quidditch uniform, but more streamlined somehow. Not that it will help to defend me from dragon fire—

I pause.

"Madame Malkin," I say, turning to her. "How good are you with more… exotic materials?"

The witch looks at me carefully. "If we have the materials in hand and you have the money, I do not think there will be any problem. We are rather good at what we do," she then narrows her eyes. "Why, Mr. Potter? Do you have any such thing for me to use?"

"Oh yes," I grin. "Loads of it, even. See, my idea…"

* * *

It took two days for me to finish the last preparations for the plan. Hell, I have run through three flasks of Mr. Hare's Energetic Draughts already, and I doubt the muck and grime will leave from under my fingernails anytime soon. Running a hand over my face, I take a look at the painting before me.

Then I take a deep breath and tickle the pear.

The passageway to the kitchens opens before me and I take a step inside. The house-elves never seem to let their hustle and bustle stop around here, always making something for the students to eat or preparing the ingredients.

"Sir!" someone makes a shrill scream and I turn to look at a house elf, his long-nosed face scrunched into a look of horror. "Please let we be cleaning these robes!"

I give him a kind smile. "I'll be sure to put it in the washing basket. But to be honest, I came here to ask you all for a favor."

The House-Elf snaps his finger and a chair and a table appear. Their magic is weird, subtler than any wizard and much less organized, _tamed_ than any wand-magic.

"Sir bez wanting some tea?" A tray appears before me at another snap of his fingers. "Crumpets? _Treacle tart_?"

Seeing how much I want their help, I accept even as my stomach protests, giving him a smile of gratitude. "Thanks-" I take a sip of the tea. "Say, you like cleaning and all, yes?"

"Of course! Alfie be a proper House-Elf sir."

I nod, hoping that I haven't offended him.

"Okay, okay, just asking." I pause for a moment to think of the right words, and as I continue, my smile has just a hint of mischief. "So, how would you react if I told you there's a part of Hogwarts that's never been cleaned in more than a thousand years?"

There's silence, then.

Every House-Elf stops moving and one or two of them even shiver as if in the middle of experiencing some sort of religious ecstasy. I can almost hear their necks creaking during the process as they turn to me and form a semicircle around me. The one I was talking to has a gleam of maniacal, unholy enthusiasm, shining in his brown eyes.

"Sir," he begins, his voice trembling. "You must tell we. Please!"

I make a show of putting my cup back in the tray and get up. I sling the strap of my bag over my shoulder and, dramatically, pick an imaginary lint from my dirty and blood-splattered robes.

All of them wait with bated breath for my next words.

"I can show you. But you see... I need your help moving something."

"Anything sir. Anything."

I fight hard not to smile. _Perfect_.

* * *

The portrait of the Fat-Lady swings open and I enter the Common Room. I amble toward one of the sofas, where Fred and George are playing Exploding Snap with Alicia, Katie, and Angelina, a let my bag fall to the ground with a clunk.

"Hey Harry," Fred says, his eyes flickering towards me for just a moment. There's a beat of silence before he snaps his head back to look at me, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. "Merlin's saggy ballsack!"

"Mate, you smell," George says, scrunching his nose.

"Oh, this," I twirl a frayed patch of my sleeves in my hand. "That's nothing."

They don't look very convinced.

"You need a bath, like, now," Katie makes a distasteful expression, but comes closer to me. "Is this _blood_ in your face? Harry, what in Merlin's name—"

Fred gestures towards me. "What Katie means is, if you need an alibi or something, you can count on us." He then narrows his eyes. "You… you don't need an alibi, do you?"

"You finally snapped and did Malfoy in?" Ron's pleads loudly from the corner where he's finishing his homework with Hermione, who's looking at me like I am a very interesting enigma. "Please tell me you did!"

"No, nothing of the sort," I can't stop my smile. "But sure, I'll let you know—"

"Harry," Angelina nudges my shoulder. "Your bag. It's smoking."

I turn to look at it and, true to Angelina's words, peals of smoke are coming from inside the bag. _Crap_. Shaking my head, I rummage the contents within it and pick up my two dragonhide gloves. They're looking fresh from a food processor, with scrapped patches and blotches of liquid billowing with acrid-smelling fumes.

"Well, they're beyond useless now," I mutter and get up, throwing them into the garbage bin, from where they disappear instantly. When I turn back to my friends, they are looking at the insides of the bag, with expressions of pure disbelief. "What?"

"Harry, old friend," George says, picking up a bloodstained cleaver from inside my bag and holding it to me. "There's anything, anything, you want to tell us?"

"I was joking about the alibi." Fred keeps looking from the cleaver to me and to the cleaver again. "Seriously, the hell were you doing? You disappear for two days and—"

"And I really, really need a bath." I wave his question off. "So, my bag?"

The twins share a look for a second. Then George raises his hands in defeat and Fred let the cleaver fall back in the bag, which he then throws to me.

"Thanks. See you all in a bit," I say, catching it and waving goodbye.

I get up to my dormitory, slouching slightly and letting out a tired breath. I let the bag fall near my bed and begin rummaging my trunk for a change of clothing, throwing longing glances at the comfortable, inviting mattress.

 _Tomorrow, I'll be tested with the First Task._

I lean on the windowsill and look at the Forbidden Forest. A plum of flames erupt from between the trees, tall and fierce, and setts the night alight. It's strange, but instead of fear, a sense of excitement burns inside me, like that dragon's fire is being poured right into my veins.

 _Tomorrow, I'll fight a dragon._

I still remember the oppressive feeling from the dragon's magic. I remember the sense of righteousness, emboldened by the sheer, raw power, that exude in waves from the beast. I remember it all and, for the first time since I've found them there, I find it lacking.

 _Tomorrow, I'll take my first step into legend._

I can hardly wait.

* * *

 **Thanks everyone for reading. Your reviews will be appreciated!**


	7. Chapter VII

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing

 **Chapter VII** _—_ **Flight of Icarus**

* * *

 _"A paradox about the tale of Icarus, Harry, is that, even as his journey and ultimate fall caution us about the dangers of hubris, there's another message underneath—that if we dare to try, we_ can _fly."_

— Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter.

* * *

Fleur is the only one inside the tent with me. She doesn't look well. Her skin is pale and she's fiddling with her wand nervously, stealing looks at the miniature of her dragon. Outside of the tent, the crowd roars and cheers as Bagman announces Krum's arrival.

I look down. The figurine in my hands is small but perfect. Black as night and with the same yellow, ghoulish eyes of the real Hungarian Horntail. As if feeling my gaze, the miniature snarls at me, his tiny, pointed teeth glinting.

"Screw you too," I say, freezing it with a wave of my hand.

"Excuse me?"

I raise my eyes to see Fleur looking at me with narrowed eyes.

"Not you-" I wave towards the Horntail miniature, "this critter here."

"Oh," she says softly, her expression relaxing.

Eager to distract myself somehow, I decide to keep talking.

"So, Fleur—can I call you Fleur?" She answers with a nod. "Good. If you excuse me… you're not looking all that up to arms now. Didn't you know about the dragons?"

"No, I knew beforehand, as I think you and Krum did," Fleur answers with no shame. "But it feels completely different to see one of them with your own eyes, though," she then waves toward the exit of the tent. "It's the waiting that's getting to me. This anticipation, the atmosphere…"

"I understand." I smile and she turns to me, her icy, blue eyes meeting mine for the first time. "Hell, I just want to go and finish it. I'm bollocks with anything involving patience."

Fleur gives me her full attention, then. "I thought you would be more scared."

"Because I'm a _leetle_ boy?"

I grin at her. My words were devoid of any real heat, but I am glad to see her cheeks dusting with pink; just a bit, mind, but it's there. Fleur crosses her legs and gives me a small smile.

"I admit my words were hasty," she says, shaking her head. "After I had time to think and talked with a friend of mine, I understood. No _leetle_ boy-" she pauses to give a lilting, clear laugh, "could have breached such enchantments. Especially enchantments wrought by such a wizard as Monsieur Dumbledore."

Now it's my turn to blush. "Really, it wasn't all that impressive."

"You underestimate yourself, Harry Potter," Fleur says, then she stares at me. "What are these abominable things you're wearing?"

"Oh, these?" I rap a knuckle on my vambraces. They're slim and the scales seem to shimmer in the sunlight. Made of dark green, the same color of the chest piece and the pants under my cloak. "Basilisk skin. Not all that common for armor, but hey, I'll take whatever advantage I can."

Fleur doesn't say anything for a second or two. The crowd is on overdrive outside as Bagman declares that Krum has completed his task. Even then, her eyes don't waver from me.

The intensity of her gaze is almost uncomfortable, but she's hot, so it's fine by me.

"Basilisk skin," she repeats, the words rolling from her tongue as she raises an eyebrow. "You are a most curious wizard. First, the Age Line, and now you somehow managed to acquire access to a _Basilisk_?" Fleur's smile is one of interest, now. "A man full of mysteries, indeed."

I blink, trying and failing to find the right words. "Call me Harry, please."

Before she can answer, however, Bagman's voice rings from the outside, calling for her.

"It's time, then," Fleur says, getting up and straightening her posture. Only the small tightening of the corners of her mouth shows what must be her real feelings. She then raises her chin and strides towards the opening in the tent—but pauses as I call her.

"Fleur?" I say, and she turns to me. "Good luck."

"Thank you." She seems to relax, even if only just, and gives me a dazzling smile. Not like those in the Prophet's photoshoot, but a small, real smile, one that looks much nicer to me.

Then she goes and I am alone. My wand sparks in my grip and I take another look at the dragon miniature, frozen in mid-snarl. My magic seems to be buzzing under my skin, yearning to be free, and I barely pay attention to Bagman's narration, my hands balling into fists.

The clock is already ticking.

* * *

" _Here he comes,_ " Bagman shouts, " _our youngest champion,_ _Harry Potte_ r"

The noise from the crowd is nothing less than cataclysmic as I walk the steps up to the dais. My cloak billows on the wind, but I have no eyes for anything other than the dragon on the opposite side of the arena.

The arena is scattered with rocks, bigger than me and positioned to leave a large path in the middle. The dragon's bulk, though, still towers over them—it's a _bloody Hungarian Horntail._

The miniature didn't do the real dragon justice. The Horntail peers at me from over its eggs as plumes of smoke escape from its nostrils. Its enormous wings are folded around it as its spiked tail gouges the floor, circling the nest.

The magic of the dragon burns hotter than any fire I've ever seen. Red and orange hues churn and twist around it in archaic shapes that express nothing but power. The magic coils as a spring around it, ready to unleash misery upon its foes.

Upon me.

Bagman's voice shakes me from my reverie. _"It seems that Mr. Potter's stumped! What can we expect from our youngest champion, ladies and gentlemen? Even in his young age, Mr. Potter—"  
_  
It's the crowd, though, that gets to me. Catcalls and jeers cut through the air, feeling like acid in my ears; they're laughing at me. My eyes narrow and fury surges like bile up my throat— _they're mocking me._

Hell, even the dragon's magic doesn't see me as a threat.

I spit on the ground.

 _Fuck_ them.

I raise my wand, cutting a line of fire through the air, and magic coalesces on the point. I reverse the grip, my entire body thrumming with power, and then I slam the tip onto the ground. There's a crack of a gunshot as a chain of gold and red extends from the tip through the ground and _takes hold._

"My magic is my might," I whisper to myself, "and through magic, my will _is_."

I yank the wand up as if I'm pulling a heavy chain. The tendrils connecting my wand to the ground tense, and under my feet, a rumble of thunder shakes the arena. Like a monstrous heartbeat is resounding from deep inside the earth.

The dragon growls in alarm, its eyes narrowing.

"Come!"

A bead of sweat trails down my jawline as I push again. A sound reminiscent of a war drum echoes through the arena. The ground shakes and bulges outwards as I clench my jaw. _Focus, Potter. Focus_!

"Come forth!"

With a monumental heave, I push for a third time.

And the ground explodes.

From where I had buried it the night before, it comes. An arrival heralded by the pieces of stone and dirt falling around me like rain. A monstrous cranium rises through the hole, the sunlight shining upon it for the first time in many years. Its eye-sockets are empty and tethered to my wand as the strings controlling a puppet.

A cavernous, long, bone-white ribcage, notched with runes, follows the decayed head. The sigils I had engraved on the bones with a mixture of my blood and its own venom are brought into stark relief as it uncoils. The first stirrings of savage elation courses through me as its enormous body hit the arena. It makes the ground tremble.

My voice turns into a hiss. " _Come forth, Basilisk!_ "

Not even Bagman dares talking as the monster rears to its full height, both great and terrible to behold. I stand tall, firming my feet and crunching some scattered pebbles under my boots, and point my wand to the beast.

" _Anima Exedos Vitae—_ ".

Magic explodes from the tip my wand and hits the monster, engulfing it in a cloud of crimson light. Inside the nimbus of power, it shudders. My modified Animation Charm seeps deep into its bones, like fingers gnawing to find the marrow within, and finds purchase through the runes. Hours upon hours of work dedicated to this.

The beast spasms as, guided by my spell, its magic _cannibalizes_ itself. A thousand years of power now relegated to mere fuel as I will it. The runes on its head are set alight in a green light from within, a light that goes down the gigantic spine and ribs to the very the tip of the tail. The beast shudders again.

Then a bright green fire explodes on its eye-sockets.

"— _Obey me!"_

The skeleton measures to at least seventy feet, devoid of any meat or sinew and held together by unseen means. The ribcage scrapes the stonework of the floor as it slithers around me. The thing has had many names in the past. The monster of the Chamber of Secrets. King of Serpents. Salazar Slytherin's beast. Tom Riddle's _pet_.

Many names for a creature that was as old as Hogwarts itself before the Headmaster and I killed it.

In death, though, it has gained one last name—

" _Master._ " It hisses. " _Master..._ "

 _Harry Potter's Golem._

 _"Ladies and gentleman, I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't seeing with my own eyes! Harry Potter managed to summon a giant snake and he talked to it! Good grief, a Parselmouth! He's pulling no punches whatsoever—"_

I catch the sight of familiar faces in the crowd, Katie almost digging her nails in her cheeks, Fred and George open-mouthed, some official-looking wizards looking at the scene with undisguised awe. Professor Dumbledore leaning forward. Sirius...

I smile. There's no one laughing anymore.

The Basilisk approaches, circling me, and I caress the underside of its cavernous maw in a mockery of affection. The dragon is following every movement, its growls a deep rumble from its chest, and the air is thick as thicker than concrete with tension.

My gaze then meets the Basilisk's burning eye-sockets. " _Attack."_

The Basilisk obeys.

It go right through the middle path and I run alongside it, letting the tip of my wand trail along the rocks. The dragon roars with such potency that my hair is blown in the wind and I skid to a stop before I can be in its range, pulling my arm back.

Then I punch forward.

Two heavy rocks shoot from the ground and through the air, both bigger than me and propelled by my spell. I grimace as a plume of fire meets them halfway, but it's enough to bring its attention to me.

And with its attention, comes the fire.

My Shield Charm springs around me, hastily done, but holds well enough as the flames wash around the surface. All I can see is fire and smoke as the dragon's breath starts to viciously consume my shield—It can't last. The heat is only building more and more.

But all I need to do is to create an _opening_.

The Basilisk seizes the opportunity and slams on the Horntail with the rumble of thunder, yanking its head to the side. The two beasts tumble onto the ground and I dismiss the Shield Charm, the acrid scent of smoke now wafting to my nostrils from the blackened, almost glassy, stone around me. The floor shakes and my steps falter as the two giants meet in battle—fire and flesh colliding with old bone and venom.

Then the dragon spits a column of flames on the Basilisk.

 _"Harry Potter's monster is under dragon fire! Dragon fire can melt almost anything—"_

The Basilisk's magical resistance rang true, though, and its jaw clamps down onto the dragon's leg. The beast screeches with pain, its enormous, horned tail whipping around as it turns.

The tail comes down onto the ribs of the serpent with a horrible cracking noise, shattering it into pieces. I take a step back and, with a twirl of my wand, Flitwick's spell covers my left arm, and I raise it before my eyes. Just in time—the bone fragments clatter against the shield like rain.

My world is full of noise and wind as everything _shakes_ under me.

Blood rushing in my ears, I come to a knee behind a rock and point my wand towards the stone floor, as gusts of wind sway the gravel around me. _Split your focus as McGonagall taught you.  
_  
The ground ripples and bulges from within as I hold it with my will, going through the relations— _stone—construction—pillars_. I flick my wand forward and the bump under the terrain speeds towards the dragon, similar to how a parasite crawls under the skin.

I shout with defiance and pride so loud that my throat protests under the strain as I yank my wand upwards. The stone floor under the dragon shoots up with the rumble of a avalanche. A enormous tentacle of pure rock surges and snakes around the dragon's tail, pulling it down.

The rock constrains the tail so tight that the scales make a grinding noise against it.

 _"Merlin! Harry Potter has caught the Horntail's tail and isn't letting it go! Are you seeing this, Dumbledore? Our youngest champion is coming to blows with the biggest dragon of the lot!"_

The dragon turns to me and opens its maw, trying to yank its tail free without success. For a instant, I see the glow of embers deep within and fire is all I have on my mind, building up from its throat and ready to engulf me, my entire world...

For a instant, I see myself burned to cinders—and I _refuse_ it.

Roaring, I jab my wand onward and shoot a Blasting Curse right on its mouth.

Teeth and pieces of flesh scatter around as the power of my curse yanks the Horntail's head back. The Basilisk comes back with all the strength of a tidal wave, slamming its head on the dragon's—and then onto a enormous rock. Something cracks and the stone breaks in two, now splattered with blood and rolling out of the arena.

The dragon roars again and a chill runs up my spine. I roll and hide behind another rock, my thoughts getting sharper, clearer. The Horntail seems cautious now, with one side of its head squirting blood and constrained to a limited range of motion by its tail.

The Horntail is not finished, however, and stumbles back to its feet, belching flames on the Basilisk. I can feel the heat and even if the serpent's magic is still vast, I know it can't last forever. I close my eyes for a instant, taking a deep breath.

 _"He scared the dragon! The dragon is desperate, and this is not good! How will it—"_

 _I need to end this._

And the ground is still under my control.

I get up and my clothes cling to my skin, drenched in sweat, while the only thing I can smell is smoke. Every muscle of my body feels tense, the next movement would break the stillness between us. I firm a foot on a piece of rock, my wand pointing downwards as the dragon flickers its head from me to the Basilisk repeatedly.

 _Now._

I roar as I raise my wand with both hands—and another pillar of stone shoots up from the floor. It slams on the dragon's maw so hard that teeth fly, clattering on the ground. The pillar follows my movement as I bring the wand down, arcing and crashing down on the Horntail's head.

I hold it down as the Basilisk hits the Horntail's side, toppling it with the strength of a earthquake. The serpent can use its full force now and its fangs find purchase, gouging the dragon's flesh. The Horntail roars even louder as the jagged bones of the skeleton shred the thin membranes of its wings and blood spray on the air.

 _"Potter's holding the dragon down! He's holding a full-sized Hungarian Horntail down!"_

Blood and meat and broken scales rain down on me. I fall to a knee, pushing my wand down, maintaining the pressure, my teeth gritted together. The dragon claws carve deep trenches as it tries to wriggle itself free, and the strain of holding it hurt. I don't let go.

I _can't_ let go.

The Basilisk then rises to its full size, and for a second, our eyes meet.

 _"Finish this!"_ I snarl.

The serpent comes down like the hammer of an angry god. It clamps its maw on the dragon's exposed neck and snakes its skeletal body around it. A symphony of cracks and crunching erupts as the the Basilisk's body constrict the wings. The dragon screeches, convulsing as if it suffers a seizure, but I still hold it down.

Blood gushes in rivulets from the Horntail's neck, staining the pearly white and cracked head of the serpent. But I keep holding it down.

Fire burns inside it's maw, but can't open its mouth and the flames squirts along the length of its jaw. The blood on the ground is bubbling and sizzling at the heat, but I keep holding it down with the stone pillar.

The Horntail convulses and rages and roars. My body is burning and cramping and painful under the strain of directing the Basilisk and the Transfigurations. But I—hold—it— _the fuck_ —down!

The Basilisk's bite can kill a human in seconds.

A dragon?

It takes almost an entire minute.

With an last, pitiful spasm, the dragon shudder; then it goes in a full-on seizure. That yellow, baleful eyes are now a slit through its eyelids, closing slowly. The magic around it flickers in and out, its fire and life extinguished forever by my hand as it falters.

The last look the dragon takes isn't directed towards me, neither is it at the Basilisk.

It's for the eggs. _Her_ eggs.

For the first time, that red haze seems to abandon me—and pity and shame takes its place.

The Horntail's head is a mockery of what the powerful being once was. Deformed, broken and shattered. Its lifeblood gushes through the wounds and pools at my feet in a testament of my deed.

I shiver with a feeling of pure revulsion and step back from the blood—it can _think._ I could have won without killing it. I could have found another way if I had tried to learn more about the First Task.

I could have done many things that I didn't.

All because of my damned _pride_.

"That—that wasn't _right,_ " There's a lump on my throat, now, my gaze flickering to the nest and back to the defeated dragon as its magic, even on its death throes, tries to reach for her eggs. My voice cracks, weak and vulnerable. _"_ I am sorry. I am so sorry— _"_

The Hungarian Horntail closes her eyes.

And like that, the last embers of its magic are erased forever.

"I am sorry."

The spectators are in silence, seeming to hold their breath as I rise to my feet, coated with sweat and soot and blood. There are many cuts on my face and body, wounds I hadn't bothered recognizing before. I walk towards the dragon's nest, almost slipping on the ground as a muscle twitches on my right leg.

I'm tired. So _very_ tired.

The eggs look untouched—I don't know how, exactly, but I am grateful for it. I pick up the Golden Egg with my good arm, as the other one has a deep gash running alongside my forearm.

My body shakes with a mad desire to laugh. This entire fight, done to recover this pitiful, useless thing. My expression is contemptuous as its weight settle on the crook of my arm, the taste of bile coming up my throat.

It's finished.

I raise my head upright as I walk to the center of the arena and I look around. I can recognize Sirius' shocked face, Thicknesse in a hushed conversation with some Ministery of Magic officials and throwing fearful glances at me, and Dumbledore's sitting on the judge's table. There's sorrow in his expression and not even a hint of a twinkle in his eyes.

I open my arms and the Basilisk rears up to its full height with a deafening hiss. The bones are bloodstained and broken, but the monster is still fearsome, even as my magic runs its course and it begins to crumble. First the top of its head, then its cranium, and then everything else.

The beast turns to dust on the wind as it lets out a last, triumphant cry.

My shout is louder than Bagman's voice could ever be. "Did you all have enough fun?!"  
 _  
"Harry Potter has killed the dragon! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Harry Potter!"_

I close my eyes as the crowd roars with applause I do not deserve.

* * *

 **Happy new year, folks! Reviews, as always, are appreciated.**


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